


Sneak

by random_flores



Category: Popular (TV), Women's Murder Club (TV)
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-27
Updated: 2013-01-30
Packaged: 2017-11-19 15:50:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 16
Words: 64,845
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/574969
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/random_flores/pseuds/random_flores
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Murder, Pride Parades, hot brunettes and ill-fated hookups: like Lindsay Boxer didn't already have enough to deal with.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue & Chapter 01

**Author's Note:**

> he version of Sam used in this story comes from another embarrassingly long Brooke/Sam saga I wrote a while ago called 'Just a Little Insight'. But you don't have to read that to get this. I just used Sam because... it's Sam. And Carly Pope is hot.

**PROLOGUE**

\---

**Lindsay Boxer**   
  
Things had changed, and she hadn't meant them too.   
  
Things didn't sneak up on Lindsay, but this ... thing had. Lindsay counted on Cindy now. It was a weakness that, in those dark moments when she found herself alone and unable to stop her brain from sneaking in a coherent, introspective thought, she discovered she hated.   
  
It wasn't just Cindy's extreme resourcefulness; her ability to look at something everyone had already looked at ten thousand times and discover something everyone else had missed. It was in her eagerness, her dogged determination to find a solution, get the bad guy, solve the crime. Her energy and her passion actually matched Lindsay's; and that was new. Instead of telling her to step back, take a break, to just not THINK, Cindy was the best kind of enabler. She found leads; she literally couldn't stop. In her obsession, Lindsay discovered Cindy understood her in a way no one had.   
  
She also finally understood just how god-damn frustrating it could be to try and rein a person like that in.   
  
And still, she earned Lindsay's respect, and she had done it the hard way. Pushing past scathing glares and angry quips and threatens of arrest and obstruction, Cindy won her place in the ‘club' that hadn't wanted her, and now Lindsay couldn't imagine it without her.   
  
That notion brought with it so much fear, because despite herself, Lindsay was falling in love, and God-dammit, she just couldn't handle that.   
  
Not with Cindy. Not now.   
  
\--   
  
**Cindy Thomas**   
  
If you asked Cindy Thomas, it had never happened. She was living in a grand state of denial, where she lived and breathed her job, and never once thought of what did or did not occur one late night when it was just her and Lindsay and her friend inexplicably straddled her lap and proceeded to give her the most acute set of metaphoric blue balls ever.   
  
Cindy had a problem. She was a nosy busy body, and she knew the only reason she could get away with it was because she just happened to be a CUTE nosy busybody. For that, she thanked her parents. As a child she had been extremely annoying and asked way too many questions, and thankfully her father found it damned endearing and encouraged it. This won her no friends in junior high. In high school, however, she developed the tiniest bit of a censor, and some pretty awesome breasts. Her hair mellowed out, thanks to the introduction to hair products. She was little and petite and just cute enough to be interesting, maybe even sexy, with the right stylist. People found her less annoying with the awesome breasts and the hair.   
  
It wasn't conceit that brought up Cindy's assessment of her characteristics, but rather, a taste for the logical. She loved to dream, but was all too aware that in her job – what she needed were facts. She knew what she had to work with, and what she had was a stubborn streak and that damned ‘cute' factor that made people want to pat her on the head and call her ‘kid'.   
  
She had learned to live with it. Whenever Jill crossed her arms and squinted and snarked about ‘Backstreet Boys' or "N'Sync' she just rolled her eyes and changed the subject. Claire seemed a little more thoughtful about it, but that was because Claire had to deal with two kids who kept insisting they were almost teenagers and Claire had no choice but to humor them. Still, nothing was as annoying as when Lindsay Boxer made some crack about her age. That made Cindy Thomas nearly homicidal.   
  
"God, you're young," she'd hear, and it would cause the most embarrassed flush, which she couldn't even hide because being a redhead meant you had incredibly pale skin that showed the slightest blotch. She wasn't a kid. She was a damned good member of the club and she worked hard to be in good standing. She worked hard to be counted on, and she was NOT A KID.   
  
Okay, maybe she wasn't ever going to be sexy in that sultry bombshell way that Jill had, but she was damned attractive.   
  
Still, as frustrated as it made her, Cindy supposed there was some sort of security in that, because it meant her crush could stay nice and manageable and one-sided.   
  
Having Lindsay Boxer grind into her, stick her tongue in her mouth and her hands down her shirt had shattered that to all hell.   
  
Or it would have, if Cindy Thomas dwelled on it. Which she didn't.   
  
She didn't think of it at all.   
  
\--   
  
**Lindsay Boxer**   
  
She could have slept with Cindy.   
  
The opportunity had been there, on the tail end of one of those particularly long days that had become so frequent lately.   
  
She had been tired, a little drunk and that reckless feeling, combined with the close proximity of a suddenly intoxicating little redhead with doe eyes who couldn't do subtle if her life depended on her, made it all too easy to kill what little inhibition she had.   
  
Listening to Cindy ramble on, one hand buried in Martha's fur, the other curving along the pale, elegant curve of the reporter's nape, Lindsay had been caught up in the moment. There was no Claire to stare with reproach (because Claire had a bit of a protective streak when it came to the young reporter, and she knew as well as Lindsay did that she was in no shape to mess with a heart that open). There was no Jill to eye them warily (because Jill knew her better than anyone and understood that a person with genuine good character and idealism both fascinated and repulsed her, and ultimately, won her over. I.E: Tom).   
  
At three in the morning, things were frighteningly uncomplicated, and there was nothing but the simple occurrence that Lindsay really wanted to shut Cindy up.   
  
So she did.   
  
She didn't ask Cindy for permission. She knew Cindy would kiss her back. She knew the moment that she methodically pulled the wine glass out of Cindy's fingers and straddled the smaller woman on that couch that Cindy would never say no. With black locks tenting the younger woman's face, Lindsay ignored the brief look of shock and lowered her head, capturing wine soaked lips hungrily.   
  
Cindy was a good kisser. Lindsay knew she would be. She caught up quickly, and without apology or hesitation opened her mouth, grabbed hold of hips astride her and bucked into the curve of her hips.   
  
Cindy's palms pressed possessively against her waist, one palm moving up instinctively to dip under Lindsay's shirt, spreading over sensitive skin. Her lips moved passionately against Lindsay's, gently but firmly probing with her tongue, never giving an inch, pushing back every time Lindsay pushed forward, a rhythmic duel. She knew what to do with a woman, Lindsay could taste it, could feel it, in how Cindy handled her.   
  
The fact that it was going to be fantastic sex on a night she desperately needed that kind of relief was enough reason to get more frantic; pulling buttons out of holes, sinking teeth into that soft, sensitive skin just under Cindy's jaw.   
  
If Lindsay had kept going with what she herself initiated, she would have had a damned good one night stand.   
  
She knew it. She expected it.   
  
What she didn't expect was the burst of actual emotion that overtook her when she paused long enough to stare into colored eyes. She didn't expect her heart to actually fucking flutter the moment Cindy breathed her name into her ear. She didn't expect to get so wet so fast, to want this so badly, to care so much that it was Cindy she was kissing.   
  
She panicked. Tearing her mouth away, she scrambled off Cindy's lap, pushing the younger woman's hands away like they had seared her.   
  
- ** _End Prologue_**

* * *

**ONE.**  
  
Sam McPherson was on assignment from Los Angeles, doing a piece on (what else) the San Francisco Pride parade. Cindy's editor, a gruff man who lived on stereotypes, asked bluntly during a staff meeting who played for their own team, and Jake, a big ole' queen himself, had actually pointed to her. Overwhelmed by the sudden attention of her colleagues (some surprised, some bored, some amused and a couple interested), Cindy found herself making it clear that her fence swung both ways. Which of course, her editor didn't give a crap about – he just wanted a babysitter for the Times girl.   
  
"Thomas!" he barked, entirely too loudly considering the room itself wasn't that big. "You're sticking with McPherson on this. We can do a companion piece for the paper."   
  
"I have a deadline," she pointed out. "And Grant is already covering the Pride parade."   
  
"You can do both." He was dismissive. Apparently she was a mutant and had the ability to be in two places at once. "Let's go. Back to work."   
"Hi," Sam McPherson said, offering an apologetic wave as she weaved her way to her. "Sorry."   
  
"For what?" Cindy asked, sliding her purse on and crossing her arms, pained smile crossing her lips. "Blowing the doors off my closet or the babysitting?"   
  
"Well, technically neither were my fault," she pointed out helpfully. "But I'll buy you a coffee."   
  
Cindy had been grumpy and annoyed, because at the moment Lindsay had left a voicemail on her cell phone demanding Cindy look up some lead about a gang presence in Chinatown. Although Cindy was still definitely not thinking about that thing that certainly did not happen close to three weeks ago, she still found herself avoiding having to be Lindsay's presence alone. That didn't stop her from her club obligations, and she really wanted to find the guys who shot the good Samaritan who was just trying to break up a fight outside of a local club. Still, she was human enough to feel a little bitter over the fact that at the moment she was being treated like a human Google.   
  
And an assignment was an assignment.   
  
For that reason, she put off the search for a half hour to have coffee with Sam McPherson.   
  
It didn't hurt that Sam was dark-haired and gorgeous and didn't treat her like she was twelve years old. Ensconced in the darkness that occurred when one of your best friends was being stalked by a serial killer who liked to sew women's lips shut, Cindy found her company to be a welcome relief.   
  
She was, Cindy found with some disappointment, in a long term relationship with a photojournalist turned segment producer for the Travel Channel, named Brooke McQueen, with whom she shared a sister oddly named ‘Mac'. "Don't ask," Sam muttered, and Cindy found it hard to not to.   
  
Still, Sam must have seen the confusion in her eyes, because her shoulders slumped and tongue pressed against her teeth, she said quickly, "My mom and her Dad got married and fell in love and it was hell for us both."   
  
"Oh." Cindy's eyes crossed slightly at the semantics of that. "I get it."   
  
"Anyway - she's in London doing a piece, and I'm here. I'm actually more of a investigative reporter," Sam continued. "But you know what happens when everyone knows you're gay. Immediately anything that's gay is suddenly yours. You're buzzing," Sam told her glibly.   
  
She was, indeed, buzzing. She hadn't stopped buzzing for the last half hour. At the moment, Cindy's blackberry was getting more of a work out than her vibrator.   
  
It was, of course, Lindsay. Or Jill calling for Lindsay. Or Claire calling for Jill for Lindsay.   
  
"Girlfriend?" Sam asked, smirk tilting up full lips as she smiled good-naturedly. "Boyfriend?"   
  
Looking at Lindsay's name blinking at her from the blackberry, Cindy grimaced. "Neither," she admitted, determined not to feel wistful. "Just a friend. And a source."   
  
"Do you need to get it?"   
  
Warring with herself, Cindy glanced up at the dark brown eyes and then again at her buzzing blackberry. With a resigned sigh, she began apologetically, "Do you mind?" before lifting the phone to her ear. "Have you ever heard of texting? I've been in meetings all day."   
  
"Where are you?" was Lindsay's clipped response.   
  
"I'm at Papa Joe's."   
  
"I'll be right there," snapped the bitter Inspector.   
  
Glancing at Sam, Cindy began, "No, Lindsay-" but of course, bad ass Inspector Boxer had already jumped off the line.   
  
"Dammit," she breathed. "I'm so sorry," she began to her gorgeous companion. "I'm working on this case-"   
  
"No, it's fine." Sam looked suddenly intrigued. "What kind of case?"   
  
\--   
  
Lindsay didn't know what made her more annoyed: the fact that she had actually had to call Cindy more than once to get a hold of her, or that Cindy not responding right away put all sorts of thoughts in her head that she knew were insane but didn't stop her from thinking them.   
  
She was actually relieved when she heard Cindy's crappy greeting. Relieved. Up until that moment Lindsay had been fighting off images of Cindy in a ditch or in a serial killer's hands, and when the annoying reporter finally picked up after two unreturned voicemail messages, Lindsay had actually closed her eyes.   
  
Then of course, she realized Cindy was just not returning her calls and that just pissed her off.   
  
As if it wasn't enough she had the damned Kiss-Me-Not killer on her ass to worry about, or the homicide and the killer who had disappeared into the impenetrable Chinatown...   
  
"I know that look," Claire muttered to her, so low Lindsay could barely hear her.   
  
"What?" she snapped.   
  
"You're clomping like a horse and looking ready to wring her neck," Claire continued. "Be nice."   
  
Whirling, Lindsay gave both of her following friends an annoyed glare. "She didn't pick up her phone!"   
  
"You never pick up your phone," Jill responded, brow arching into her forehead.   
  
"And when you do you snap at her like she's committed a felony."   
  
"She has," Lindsay reminded them both. "How many times have I come back and found her in that damned cage? You know what? I should just lock her in there."   
  
Claire rolled her eyes. "That'd be helpful."   
  
"She has a whole other job." Jill shivered in the crisp air. "It's not all dedicated to your cases."   
  
"You coulda fooled me, the way I can't get rid of her," Lindsay grumbled. "And you know what? The fact that you two are defending her isn't making me feel any better about this."   
  
The medical examiner and the ADA exchanged another glance, which only pissed her off more.   
  
"And stop it with that." When Jill fought her smirk, she pointed an angry finger her way. "And with that. This is not endearing. It is not cute."   
  
"Says you," Claire murmured, and Lindsay actually growled, as she grabbed hold of the diner door and yanked it open, looking for the telltale sign of a redhead in their usual spot.   
  
She found her.   
  
She didn't find her alone.   
  
"Hi guys," Cindy said, offering a amiable, trembling smile as they came forward.   
  
"Who is this?" Lindsay asked pointedly, nodding to the young brunette currently occupying the place in the booth beside Cindy.   
  
"Um, guys? This is Sam McPherson."   
  
Mouth dropping open, Lindsay glared with disbelief. "You didn't return my calls because you were having LUNCH?"   
  
"Not exactly," the girl named Sam replied, which only annoyed Lindsay more, because really – who the hell was asking her? "She's babysitting me."   
  
Glancing at Jill, Lindsay's hands went to her hips, eyes narrowing.   
  
"Babysitting?"   
  
"We're doing an assignment together," Cindy replied helpfully, bumping shoulders with the dark haired woman. "But Sam is an investigative reporter and she actually had some ideas about the murder-"   
  
"She what?" Lindsay barked, suddenly stung. "We don't talk to reporters, Cindy."   
  
"You talk to me."   
  
"That's because you STALKED me until I had no other choice."   
  
Cindy blinked, and Lindsay noticed an embarrassed glance to her new buddy. "This is Lindsay, by the way."   
  
Sam McPherson licked her lips, and offered what Lindsay supposed would have been a charming smile, if she was in any mood to like her. "Hi. I'm sorry. I know I'm crashing your party-"   
  
"Don't worry about it," Jill breathed, sliding into the open bench right after Claire, stretching out a hand in greeting. "I'm Jill."   
  
"Claire," the other one said warmly.   
  
"Nice to meet you."   
  
Lindsay was apparently the only one who could do math. "Well this is great," she breathed, standing like an idiot because everyone already had a seat and the booth only seated four. "I'm fine, by the way. I like standing."   
  
Four equally surprised expressions glanced her way, and as Cindy blanched and Jill actually smirked, Claire began to eye the diner. "There's a stool around here somewhere..."   
  
"A stool!?"   
  
That was met with a thick silence, before Sam suddenly rose. "You know what? I need to get back to the hotel to... do stuff, but... how about I call you?" That little gem of a sentence was directed toward Cindy, who in response pulled out a business card and handed it to the other girl.   
  
"Sure thing," Cindy responded. "We'll ..."   
  
"Definitely," Sam said, and brown eyes shot a glance at her. Mouth twitching, Lindsay stared right back, making a point of flipping the leather of her jacket to reveal her gun. "Right. Nice to meet you..." Ducking her head, Sam weaved around her and headed to the door.   
  
As soon as she was gone, Lindsay set determined brown eyes on her reporter. "Listen to me. We do not talk to reporters. We talk to you, and that's it. Do not bring her around anymore, and do not discuss this case with her. And when I call you? You answer your damned phone or call me back within the hour or I'm going to assume you're dead, and then I will be EXTREMELY pissed off when you are not. Do you understand?"   
  
Not waiting for an answer, Lindsay sighed. Settling into the padded booth beside Cindy, she idly grabbed a menu and began to peruse it.   
  
When no one spoke, she finally looked up.   
  
There were three sets of glares all pointed in her direction.   
  
"What?"

 


	2. Chapter 2

**TWO.**  
  
Jill Bernhardt had entered law school under the mistaken assumption that being able to logically form arguments and present them would somehow or other deter her from the bad decisions she was so very good at making. 

She very quickly discovered that knowing something was a bad idea and actually doing it were not the same thing, and just because she knew that logically her actions were not in her self interest didn’t actually deter her from carrying them out. 

Which was actually worse, when she thought about it. 

Feeling particularly melodramatic, she leaned forward and carefully inhaled on the small white roach occupying her hand, watching as the flame flickering from the aromatic candle on Lindsay’s porch burned the edge a bright orange. 

“Do you have any idea how incredibly illegal that is?” 

Settling back on the wooden porch chair, Jill exhaled, eyes rising to meet the not-entirely-surprised expression on her best friend’s face. 

“I’m a lawyer,” she reminded her with a bitter grimace. “Of course I do. Care to join me?” 

Lindsay actually hesitated, before her shoulders slumped and she came forward, boots clomping on the wood as she settled in beside her. 

“Nah, I’ll just breathe it in.” After a moment, Lindsay smiled. “You know, Claire would kill you if she found out you had that stash.” 

“Why do you think I came over here to smoke it?” With a smirk, Jill blew a puff of tainted air into Lindsay’s face. 

“Hey!” came the good-natured growl. “Not on the jacket!” Shrugging off the leather, Lindsay put it out of harm’s way, taking a moment to close her eyes and concentrate on the atmosphere. The warmth of her arm seeped into Jill’s, as Lindsay’s head tilted, rested against hers. 

It was times like these that Jill was absurdly protective of Lindsay. There were an incredible few that actually got to see Lindsay this vulnerable. When it happened, it felt like Jill was being let in on a cherished secret. 

At the present, with the threat of a serial killer hanging over Lindsay’s head, it felt more precious. 

“Tough day?” she began, whispering to compensate for the sweetness of the moment. 

Stirring, Lindsay opened one eye and closed it again, long fingers reaching up to rub against her wrinkled brow. “Yeah,” she breathed, voice rough and gravelly. “I just… sometimes that girl really drives me crazy, you know?” 

That girl, of course, was Cindy. Glancing away, Jill concentrated on the burning tip of her joint. Lately, that girl had always been Cindy. 

Making the adjustment from a trio to a quartet hadn’t been easy. Jill wasn’t all that great at making friends, particularly those from her own sex. Women, she discovered quite early on, tended to hate her, usually on some suspicions that she was sleeping with their boyfriend or husband. Lindsay and Claire, as always, were the exception, and as long as she had them, Jill told herself she didn’t care about anyone else. 

She had built up a resistance to her own feelings of inadequacy, but she did discover that there lingered in her a faint resentment, a tendency to be catty. Cindy had seemed determined to invite the attitude, thanks to her complete willingness to stalk Jill’s best friend. 

Claire was so easy going she took to Cindy like she was a long-lost daughter. When Lindsay had relented, Jill had been surprised, then bothered, then resigned. Cindy was small and cute and Lindsay didn’t get her. Lindsay had to understand things, when she didn’t, it drove her mad. Driving Lindsay mad invited Lindsay’s interest, and it was only a matter of time before Cindy’s cuteness and exceptional ability to do her job would morph that interest into affection. 

As the rational one (at least in matters that didn’t apply directly to her), Jill had been determined to be resistant. 

That has lasted maybe… two weeks. 

Of course, that didn’t stop the cheap pang of jealousy that occurred every time Jill witnessed a stare that lasted too long, a smile that was meant only for Cindy, the absurd fear of being replaced… 

She was unprepared for it, she didn’t want to prepare for that; not after just losing Luke. It was a selfish impulse, but Jill had trouble divorcing herself from it. 

“I know,” she quipped, voice lighter than she was feeling. “It’s been kinda fun to watch.” And it was. Lindsay flustered was a rare treat, and Jill admired anyone who could bring that out in her. At Lindsay’s sudden glare, she continued, “You haven’t been that worked up about someone other than Tom for a while.” 

At the mention of her ex, Lindsay grimaced. “Let’s not put them in the same bracket, okay?” There was more said in the unspoken than in Lindsay’s actual reply. “I just don’t get her, you know? She’s known that girl all of what… five minutes and she’s already blabbing about our cases? What’s the matter with her?” 

Bringing the lit roach to her lips, Jill took her time in responding, face screwing together at the taste of the bitter smoke. “A lot of things, but I think the real issue is what’s the matter with you.” 

“Oh what the hell does that mean?” Lindsay growled, seconds before she eyed the wrapped paper between Jill’s fingers and reached for it. “Gimme that.” 

“I just mean that I think you over reacted a little.” 

“I over reacted.” Lindsay snorted her disbelief. “I can’t find her all day, and the reason is because she’s having lunch? With a reporter? Blabbing? I should have arrested her for obstruction.” 

“Okay, see? You promised that you wouldn’t threaten to charge her with obstruction anymore.” 

“I know,” she grumbled. “But she deserved it.” Pausing, Lindsay inhaled a puff of smoke, and coughed, eyes visibly stinging as she handed it back to Jill. “Talking to a reporter. Jesus.” 

“Oh, come on. Sam seemed harmless.” 

“Yeah, so did Cindy when I first met her. Just some annoying kid reporter who barely knew her own name. Next thing I know I’m arresting her for breaking and entering before she runs off with …” Lindsay blinked, at a loss. “God-dammit – what was her name?” 

Unable to fight the smile that tilted up her lips, Jill answered calmly, “Theresa Woo.” 

“Right.” Lindsay’s head fell back against the cheer, clearly affected by the drug. “What was I saying?” 

“Something about Cindy not being harmless.” 

“Right. She’s not. She’s annoying.” 

“And yet, she’s in the club,” Jill mused, offering a small smile. 

“It’s not a club!” Lindsay looked aggravated by the use of the word. “Don’t you start calling it that.” 

“Hey, you’re the one that let her in.” 

“Maybe I’ll rescind the invitation.” 

“You wouldn’t do that now, even if you could,” Jill replied frankly, stubbing out the roach. It was clear Lindsay had had enough. “You rely on that girl way too much.” 

At that, Lindsay groaned, palm coming up to slap against her forehead. “I do, don’t I? I do. God. I don’t… just… how the hell did it get to this? One day you’re annoyed and then next you’re crawling into her lap-“ 

“I’m, sorry, WHAT?!” Jill’s voice went unnaturally high. Her insides jolted, and with it, went her spine, straightening and nearly knocking the candle off its perch. 

Eyes widening, Lindsay’s mouth snapped shut. 

“No, no, no- you do not get to clam up.” Jill’s eyes narrowed dangerously, and she felt her blood rushing unnaturally fast, creating a warm blush in her cheeks that made her feel like her skin was burning. “Start talking. You crawled into Cindy’s lap?” 

Like a child caught stealing, Lindsay slumped into the chair, suddenly meek. “I was drunk.” 

Breath caught in her throat, Jill studied the frightened, guilty posture. 

Exhaling, she swallowed down the unnerving anger and reached again for the pot. 

“I think I need to light this again.” 

\-- 

“Hey, Bi-Girl.” 

It was past midnight, which officially made it too late for this kind of crap. 

Pushing out a deep, calming breath through her nostrils, Cindy straightened her shoulders and turned her head from the computer screen to the copyright editor with a shit-eating grin on his face. 

“Haha,” she said dryly. “Yes, it’s horribly funny. Cindy is bisexual. That’s so original in San Francisco.” 

“Aw, you don’t have to be such a downer about it.” Leaning over the cubicle, Gerard Martinez gave a playful pout. “Just wanted to submit my resume, you know, if you’re hiring.” 

“Currently not accepting applications,” she shot back, but softened the rejection with a smile. “If there’s an opening I’ll let you know.” 

“Cool,” he said, nodding his head good-naturedly. “What about that Times girl? She open for business, if you know what I mean?” 

The resulting leer caused an annoyed frown. “You know, ‘bi’ doesn’t mean ‘guy’. I may actually still get offended by sexist comments.” 

“Oh, come on. She’s hot.” 

With a reluctant nod, she agreed. “And very taken.” 

“Bummer for you,” he said, and with a slap against the side of her cubicle frame, headed on his way. “Go home, Thomas!” 

“You first!” 

He waved his hand, and then once again, Cindy was left alone, with her cup of coffee and blazing white screen. 

The article was half written, she had gotten a dozen notes back from the fact checker, she still hadn’t had a chance to follow up on helping Lindsay figure out which Li out of the twenty thousand Li’s there were in Chinatown was a member of the Joe boys, the gay pride parade was two days away, and all Cindy could concentrate on was the infuriating look on Lindsay’s face at the diner. 

Cindy was not a mooner. Okay, she was trying not to be a mooner. If she believed in resolutions, hers would be not to wallow away mooning, over analyzing everything. 

Lindsay being a complete bitch at the diner was just Lindsay being a bitch, and the correct reciprocating emotion should be righteous indignation, not some petty feeling of validation that somehow, somewhere deep down, Lindsay was jealous at seeing her in the company of a gorgeous, younger brunette. 

She suddenly felt very tired. 

Reaching for the Styrofoam cup that contained cold coffee, Cindy sipped, then blanched. 

The newspaper was a twenty-four hour operation. There was never a time when the place was empty, and Cindy usually never felt alone. 

Sure, she was lonely, but it happened when you worked long hours with people who knew you but didn’t really… 

“I hate late night moments of introspection.” 

That said, she put down her pen, and began to type, determined to bury her mind in work and away from the cold eyes of a certain dark-haired Inspector. 

\-- 

Talking things out had never worked for her. 

Not that holding things in was any better, but it seemed that any time Lindsay Boxer had information dragged out of her, it seemed to make people angry rather than understanding. 

There were several instances in her recent past that had proved this: Claire finding out about Tom, for one. Jacobi’s verbal assault when he discovered she had been targeted by the Kiss-Me-Not killer still brought a painful ache in her chest that made it hard to breathe and brought stinging tears to her eyes. 

From the look on Jill’s hooded expression, tonight’s revelation about the night-that-wasn’t with Cindy, wouldn’t yield any better results. 

Her best friend didn’t look at her, simply stared at the wooden porch floor, every once in a while pausing to stare at the lit roach, watching the tainted smoke disappear into the crisp night air. 

Her phone began to buzz, and automatically, grateful for the distraction, Lindsay reached for the gadget and opened it. 

It was a text message, from Cindy – the only one of her friends who actually made use of that option. 

“No progress tonight,” it said, “Will look into Lis tomorrow.” 

It was a coward’s way out of having to actually speak to her, but based on Lindsay’s last few interactions with the cub reporter, she couldn’t exactly blame her. 

“Was that Cindy?” Jill’s voice was quiet. 

Taking another moment to stare at the message, read it again, Lindsay managed a hard swallow and flipped the phone closed. “Yeah,” she began, offering a tired smile. “She says she’s got nothing, but she’ll try tomorrow.” 

“Well, if anyone can find one Li out of a million, it would be Cindy.” Stubbing out the roach, Jill got to her feet. “I want a beer. Do you want a beer?” 

Lindsay eyed her friend gently. “Yeah,” she returned gamely. “Lay it on me.” 

With a small smile, Jill turned on her heel and headed for the door, letting out Martha as she stepped inside. 

The beautiful big dog trotted amiably toward her, and gratefully, Lindsay widened her legs and opened her arms, curling her fingers around a strong, furry neck. 

“Hey, buddy,” she breathed, closing her eyes, allowing herself to take in the simple sensation of a fuzzy friend. 

The porch door creaked open, and Lindsay released her dog, in favor of glancing up at Jill, who was holding out a chilled, open bottle of beer. 

“Okay,” Jill said, as Lindsay silently took the bottle from her. “Here’s the deal. I know I have no right to be jealous, but I am. So let’s just voice that and get it out of the way.” 

Brow furrowing, Lindsay felt a frog catch in her throat, making it difficult to rasp anything but a puzzled, “Okay.” 

“I don’t know if it’s a left over clingy thing from not having Luke or residuals from that time that you and I… you know…” 

“…Okay,” she said, nodding obediently, remembering suddenly the feel of her friend’s lips pressed against hers, the breathless gasp of Jill, arching above her. 

Feeling an uncharacteristic blush steaming onto her face, she glanced away. 

“But as your friend, I’d be lying if I said I hadn’t seen this coming.” 

The flat statement produced a sudden jerk of her head, forcing a bewildered stare. “What?” she shot. 

In the middle of a gulping down a drink from her beer, Jill held up a finger, indicating her to be patient. 

“Oh, please,” Jill said, wiping her mouth as she lowered the bottle, “All that staring and over protective rants? The completely obvious jealousy?” 

“The jealousy was obvious?” 

Jill shot her an annoyed look, and it cowed her. Shoulders slumping, she opted to stare at her beer. 

“I knew there was a reason she had been staying away from you… Hell, I should have put it together.” 

“Well, don’t beat yourself up over it,” Lindsay proclaimed dryly. 

“I just thought it would be Cindy putting herself out there. You know… grabbing the bull by its horns… not the other way around.” 

“Because I’m incapable of making the first move?” 

“Well, judging by what happened, you’re not exactly capable of finishing it.” 

Lindsay blanched at the statement. “You know – sometimes brutal honesty is over rated.” 

Jill’s eyes bore intriguingly into hers. “You actually crawled into her lap, felt her up, stuck your tongue down her throat, and then kicked her out?” 

“It didn’t happen exactly like that.” 

“You gave Cindy blue balls.” 

Lindsay choked on her swallow of beer. “I did not!” she managed, wiping at the liquid that spilled down her chin. 

“That’s so mean it’s almost brilliant.” 

“No one got blueballs,” Lindsay snapped. “There’s more to it than that.” 

Jill, however, seemed to have found a tangent of this whole mess that actually amused. “Lindsay Boxer is a tease.” 

“Oh, God, will you shut up?” 

But Jill was laughing, overwhelmed by both the situation and the beer and the pot, shoulders shaking with unrepentant mirth. 

“You’re never going to let this one go, are you?” 

It was the kind of ironic tragedy that was infectious, and despite her aching heart and the headache that was beginning to pound into her head, Lindsay felt the corners of her mouth tugging into a reluctant smile. 

“I hate you so much right now,” she managed, before she erupted in her own set of chuckles, doubling over and collapsing against her friend. 

From the corner of her eye, she saw Martha quizzically raise her head, and observe them sagely. 

\-- 

It wasn’t jet lag that was the problem. Sam McPherson had taken a two hour flight up from Los Angeles and that meant there was no jet lag. 

She wanted to blame it on the jet lag. It made it easier to blame the inability to sleep on something beyond her control, something stable; like the time. 

But the truth was something far simpler: It was boredom. 

Sam McPherson loathed it. She feared it. 

Fear of boredom was her anti-drug. 

And she was bored. 

It was 2AM, and Sam, after hours of sifting through Paid Advertisements for a ‘Work From Home!’ pamphlet, South Park reruns, and so many Girls Gone Wild videos it frightened her, was still wide awake. 

Rolling over on her stomach, Sam reached for her pillow and punched it roughly, shoving it under her head. 

It didn’t help. 

Giving up, she grabbed hold of the phone charging on the nightstand and flipped open the Sidekick, thumbing through the scroll wheel until she got to the texting menu, punching in her message. 

‘BORED. HELP. SEND PHONE SEX.’ 

Her smile widened as she watched the message disappear. 

It was a long three minutes, until the phone buzzed in her hand. 

“I knew that would get you,” Sam breathed, answering immediately. 

If Brooke could have seen the smile on her face, her girlfriend would have called her ridiculous. 

As it was, she already did. 

“You are completely ridiculous,” Brooke commented, voice low and resigned. 

“So no phone sex?” 

“I am in the middle of a place called ‘The London Dungeon’. I’m staring at a bunch of rats running through a glass case full of artificial bones.” 

“Sexy.” 

“Only to you.” She could almost hear the grin on Brooke’s voice. “I hate this place. Naturally you would love it. There’s an exhibit on every horrible thing that happened to people in London. And it’s interactive. Jack the Ripper, The Plague-“ 

“Sweeney Todd?” 

“Honey? Give that one up. I have it on good authority that he looked nothing like Johnny Depp.” 

“You’re such a bubble burster.” 

“And you’re a child. You’ve been in San Francisco … like… a day.” 

“Okay, yes, but the most exciting thing that has happened to me is getting chewed out by this hot lady Inspector for daring to talk to her chick.” 

“Her chick?” 

“Yeah, my babysitter, Cindy Thomas.” Flopping back on her back, Sam sighed. “She’s cute. For a redhead.” 

“So you’re saying that not only do I have worry about every gay woman at the Pride Parade throwing herself at you but now there’s a red-head? Do we remember I don’t like red-heads?” 

And there was a very good reason. Sam’s first girlfriend, the girlfriend Sam had left to be with Brooke all those years ago, was a red-head. A naughty smile grew on her face. “If I remember correctly, they don’t like you either, baby.” 

“Uh-huh. Just hope that I don’t run into Lena Headey over here.” 

Sucking in her breath, Sam pouted good-naturedly. “Brooke, that’s just mean. We agreed if that were to happen it would happen as a threesome. Or that I could at the very least watch.” 

A gorgeous chuckle floated down the line, into Sam’s ear, and she felt a twinge of loving warmness as a result. “Seriously,” Brooke replied, steering the banter. “You can’t be bored already. That’s the Pride Parade. It’s supposed to be awesome.” 

“Blech.” 

“It’s supposed to be inspiring.” 

“Gag.” 

“There’s supposed to be hot chicks there.” 

“Okay, well the hot chick I’m after is in some sort of icky dungeon in London. Try harder, please.” 

“I suppose appealing to your GLAAD happy self would be too much?” 

“I’m a person, not a bill board,” she quoted amiably. “Though that Cindy girl? There is something interesting there. She’s part of some sort of thing.” 

“A thing?” 

“Well… when I was having coffee with her that crazy hot Inspector came in, with, get this, a District Attorney, and a Medical Examiner. They were her friends. And from what she was saying before they got there, they were trying to solve some sort of murder together.” 

“What, like a club or a gang or something?” 

“That’s weird, right?” she agreed, sitting up. “I mean, Inspector Boxer lady practically flipped out when she realized Cindy had talked to me about it. If it would have helped I think she would have peed on her.” 

“Nice. Hold on.” She heard some buzzing, and what appeared to be muffled speaking, before Brooke came back on the line, “And on THAT nice bit of imagery, I gotta sign off. Looks like we’re ready to shoot.” 

It was never long enough. 

“Fine,” Sam said, good-naturedly resigned. “Call me later, okay?” 

“Let’s hope you get some sleep before then. Love you, Sam.” 

“Backatcha.” 

She waited until she heard the click of the line, disconnecting the call, before she closed the phone, and stared up at the ceiling. 

Bored. Bored. BORED. 

\-- 

The laughter had subsided, and left behind was a curious sort of intimacy. Arm wrapped around Jill, Lindsay was grateful for the warmness of her friend cuddled into her side. 

The night was remarkably clear. 

“So what were you afraid of?” Jill’s statement broke the silence. 

Swallowing, Lindsay didn’t move. “I don’t know… everything?” 

Fingers trailed down her forearms, until they tangled with hers, holding on tightly. “You know, she could be good for you.” 

Her insides twisted, and Lindsay fought the reprehensible urge to suddenly cry. “Yeah… sometimes I think so too.” 

“So what’s the problem?” 

“I don’t know.” Lindsay licked her lips, overtaken with the memory of fingers buried in red hair, a hungry mouth panting against hers. She shivered. “It’s not a good time.” 

She felt Jill’s head lift off her shoulder. “Linds, you’re a homicide Investigator. There’s never a good time.” 

She knew that. 

“It didn’t stop you from marrying Tom.” 

“And look at how that turned out.” 

She could feel Jill staring at her. Lindsay waited it out and finally heard a long sigh, before a warm head once again settled against her. 

“Okay,” Jill said simply. “But what happens when she finds someone else?” 

The image of a gorgeous brunette, head tilting down toward Cindy, flashed in her memory. 

“Linds? Can you handle that?” 

Lost in the unexpected pain, Lindsay lifted the bottle to her lips with her free hand. 

“Don’t have much of a choice, do I?”


	3. Chapter 3

**THREE.**  
  
"Boxer.” 

It wasn’t a shudder of surprise that went up her spine, the minute she heard the familiar voice speak nearly into her ear. 

It was disgust. 

Ignoring Agent Ashe, her personal FBI stalker, Lindsay made a point to lock her door with a furious click. 

“Don’t you have better things to do than to stake out my house?” she bit, before turning on her booted heel and heading down the stairs. 

“Not really,” he remarked, voice husky as he fell into step beside her. “My focus is the Kiss-Me-Not-Killer, and as you recall, his focus is you.” 

Eyes rolling to the top of her head, she paused, staring at the handsome, stoic face with a look that could have easily wilted normal men. “No,” she remarked flatly. “Really?” 

His brow rose at the sarcasm. 

“I think we’ve been getting off track,” he continued, content to walk alongside her as she headed to her car. “And that’s a mistake.” 

“Wrong,” Lindsay answered, fiddling with her keys. “My focus is just where it needs to be. On my cases. Your focus is to find the guy, and when you find something new, I’ll help you. Until then, you’ve got everything I know, and I’ve got a gangster hiding out in Chinatown.” 

“What good are you to your friends or your peers if you’re dead?” 

Glaring at him over the top of her car, she jerked the car door open. “Has anyone told you you’re a regular burst of sunshine?” 

“Not lately, no.” He rapped on his side of the car, pointing at the door. “My side’s locked.” 

“You’re not coming with me.” 

“It’s becoming increasingly clear that the only way I can keep your attention on the Kiss Me Not Killer is if I’m by your side. So yes, I’m coming with you.” 

Agent Ashe was a pain in the ass. 

“What the hell does that mean?” 

Straightening his tie, he remained the picture of smug condensation. “I thought when you filled in your little club-“ 

“It’s not a club-“ 

“-that your focus would actually shift. That you and your friends would realize just how important it is to everyone’s safety that we find this guy.” 

“How are we supposed to find him if there’s nothing new to find?” 

“Are you suggesting we wait until there’s another body? Because for your sake, I hope you’re not.” 

He had the most obnoxious way of twisting her words. “I’m not going to stop living my life because you got a damned picture with scrawls of ink on it. We’re going to catch this guy – but you don’t have to suffocate me to do it.” 

She was doing her best to keep her temper. Interaction with the odd Agent had given Lindsay the insight to understand that he responded best to calm assertiveness, and like herself, didn’t back off at the show of aggression. 

She hated that she had actually spent enough time to deal with the man to actually figure out some of his complex behavior. 

“Now, if you’ll excuse me? I’ve got a gangster to track down. I’ll call you tonight,” she added, as a tone of appeasement, in hopes that somehow this would keep him from forcing himself into the car with her. 

Behind dark sunglasses, he eyed her. “Fine.” He took a step back, slipping large hands into his slacks. 

It was almost too easy. 

With a suspicious glance, she slid into the driver’s seat, shifting the key into the ignition and cranking the SUV into a roaring start. 

A tap against her window made her shoulders slump. 

Inhaling deeply, she reached for the button on the side, allowing the window to slide down just the tiniest bit. “What?” 

“Just one more thing,” he answered. “It’s probably not a good idea to have your friends spend the night.” 

“Excuse me?” 

“First it was Miss Cindy Thomas…” he glanced down, as if he was consulting notes. “Leaving here at what… five in the morning? Looking hammered. Last night it was Jill Bernhardt.” 

“Are you watching my house?” 

“He probably is,” he answered seriously. “And he might get the wrong impression.” 

The feeling of hatred overwhelming her was almost too much to bear. 

“He’ll find any weakness, and he’ll exploit it. If I were you, I’d keep your friends at a platonic distance.” 

Nearly shaking with fury, Lindsay closed the window, and pushed the car into drive, praying for the control not to run the infuriating Agent over. 

\-- 

It was a deception to think that Cindy Thomas was a natural energizer bunny. 

The brutal truth was, the one thing she loved more than anything was to sleep in. She loved sleep. She loved the entire act of sleeping, from settling into fuzzy warm covers to waking up warm and toasty. 

She hated her alarm clock with a deep seated fiery passion. 

It was thanks only to discipline and her inability to ignore her duties that she was out of bed after a paltry four hours of rejuvenation. 

Nursing a cup of Starbucks coffee (expensive but really the only reason she could think that could even begin to make up for not getting enough sleep), she now sat in her chair, staring at a huge ass monitor, with so much to do that she didn’t even know where to start. 

“Hey. Babysitter.” 

The voice was entirely too chirpy for Cindy’s grumpy state, but she forced a smile to the smiling face of one Sam McPherson, who placed a muffin on her crowded desk. 

“Hey,” she responded, pulling off her lenses and rubbing gently at her eyes. “Baby.” The connotation was a little more sexual than she intended, and she flushed. Mouth clamping tight, she averted her eyes and reached for the muffin. “Stalking me?” 

“Couldn’t sleep,” Sam explained, hip leaning against the cubicle as she raised her own glass of tea to her mouth. “And I was bored,” she added after a sip. “I hate that.” 

“Not sleeping? Me too.” 

“Being bored,” Sam corrected. “This is such a puff piece it depresses me.” 

This was said so matter-of-factly that Cindy offered an unintentional smile of commiseration. “I know the feeling.” Glancing over the stacks of papers on her desk, she pressed her tongue to the roof of her mouth. Guess she knew what was going first on her ‘to-do’ list. “Well, I was able to get some interviews with a couple key people with this year’s parade, if you want you and I can head down to the headquarters, look at the floats-“ 

“Oh, babe, I don’t expect you to do my job for me,” Sam said, stopping her with a upturned pinky. “I got this parade locked up, don’t worry about it.” 

It was a little disconcerting, to feel so suddenly useless. “Oh.” 

“Seriously. How many people have done a piece on this thing? The challenge will be to find an angle that no one’s tackled and hell, I can do that at the parade. What I’m really after,” Sam continued, pushing aside a pile on Cindy’s desk and settling on top of it. “Is this Li thing.” 

Blinking, Cindy found herself straightening. “This… li thing?” 

“Yeah, you know the Asian gangster? Tracking him down? I’ve been thinking about it all night, and I did some google searching on this gang of yours? The Joe Boys? I have a few friends here in San Fran and I’ve got a few leads.” 

Startled at the forwardness of the other reporter, Cindy’s mouth dropped open. “Uh…” Trying to clear her head, she glanced back uneasily at the monitor. “That’s … that’s really nice of you, but…” 

“I figure you and me can hit Chinatown together, you know? Do some snooping. You must have this city connected. Combining our sources we can catch this guy before lunch.” 

Imagining Lindsay’s expression at the possibility of the brunette reporter snooping again, Cindy rubbed awkwardly at her neck. 

“Look, Sam. I think it’s great that you’re so… gungho about this, but this whole ‘Li’ thing is kinda… it’s not really a two-person kinda thing. It’s a favor for a friend-“ 

“And she hates me, whatever.” Sam crossed her arms, looking thoughtful. “Look, does she even have to know? Honestly, Cindy, I know you got a raw deal with me as your unintentional appendage, but I swear to God you can trust me. Helping to solve a murder is a helluva lot more interesting than … you know… looking at floats.” 

It was hard to argue with the almost frightened expression on Sam McPherson’s face, and Cindy Thomas had to bite her lip from giving herself away with an enamored smile. 

“How does Brooke keep up with you?” 

Sam paused mid-coffee sip. “Oh, God, are you kidding? Remind me to tell you the story of how we got together.” 

“You don’t have time now?” 

“Pfft.” Sam shuddered. “I spent the better part of a night chasing her from LAX to her sorority’s beach party, then forcing a mutual friend to fly me and four of her closest friends to Chicago to try to track her down before she got on another plane.” 

Cindy’s eyes went oddly cross-eyed. “Why was she in Chicago?” 

“She was looking for me. She was with my ex-girlfriend.” 

“But you were in LA.” 

“She didn’t know that.” Sam took another swallow, and grimaced. “Like I said, long story. Can we go find a gangster now?” 

\-- 

Claire often wondered how on earth she became the dependable one. 

She supposed it had something to do with being a mother. There was no room for pot parties and dangerous snooping when there were two little children and a husband depending on her very existence. 

Digging your hands regularly into the physical evidence of other people’s malicious intentions and their own stupidity was also motivation enough. 

Still, Claire’s job relied in being able to put together the puzzle, think of every solution, and provide the detectives with as much information as she could in order to find the suspect, stop the killer. 

The fact that she hadn’t been able to do that for Lindsay in regards to the Kiss-Me-Not Killer case, was a black blotch on her record she didn’t like to think about. 

The very real fear, however, that one of these days it would be Lindsay lying on her slab, Lindsay she was cutting into, forced it to the forefront of her mind; and sometimes made it nearly impossible to focus on anything else. 

“You look deep in thought.” 

Dark eyes glancing up thoughtfully, Claire discovered a tired expression on a friendly face, as Jill Bernhardt slipped into her office, looking dapper, fashionable and put together. 

“You look exhausted,” Claire returned, dropping the pictures she had been perusing back on top of the file that they came from. Leaning back in her chair, she nodded to the empty one on the other side of her desk. “I didn’t hear you come in last night.” 

“Late night with Lindsay,” Jill admitted, easing gracefully into her seat, voice husky. 

That usually did explain it. 

“Why?” Jill continued, mouth quirking up impishly. “Did I miss curfew?” 

“Honey, I’ve got my kids. You’re a grown woman. You can handle yourself.” 

The grin she got was grateful. “That’s doubtful.” Fingers dug into pale bangs. “I have quite a knack for screwing things up. I could use a mom like you.” 

“Tell that to Nate. He hasn’t spoken me in the past week for putting his Wii on restriction after he got that C.” She paused, allowing the gentle moment to linger, before she glanced down at the pictures again. “How is Lindsay?” 

Crystal eyes glanced up, locked with hers, then moved away mysteriously. “Not great.” 

There was so much depth in that statement, it took Claire a little by surprise. “Tell me how you really feel.” 

With a groan, Jill’s head fell back, a silly, resigned smile on her face. “No, God, no. Don’t make me talk about it, okay? I’m still processing.” 

“There’s something we need to process?” 

Hand pressed against the side of her face, Jill didn’t move. 

“Okay,” Claire said, allowing the girl her privacy. Once again, her gaze went down to the pictures on her desk. “I’ve been wondering if it’s too much to ask Lindsay if she can get Agent Ashe to get us any forensic reports the Agency has put together on the Kiss-Me-Not killer case.” 

The distraction was enough for Jill’s hand to come down. “Do you think you might have missed something?” 

“I’m a Medical Examiner,” Claire said thoughtfully. “Not a criminologist. The man has resources. It’d be silly not to use them. Obviously our killer doesn’t make mistakes, but if there’s trace evidence…” 

“Wouldn’t there have to be a fresh crime scene in order for that kind of thing to be collected?” Jill asked, ever the devil’s advocate. “The FBI took over after the last death.” 

“They have methods,” she countered. “And even so, I’d rather pull out all the stops now than wait for a fresh crime scene.” 

Jill’s expression sobered as she glanced at the images on Claire’s desk. “Noted.” Without asking, she reached for the skull filled with candy, and with a wince at the monstrous contraception, reached inside for a sweet, before offering it to her. 

Taking a small brick of chocolate, Claire eyed her friend idly. “A few weeks ago… when Lindsay told us…” A barely there flicker of a shadow crossed over Jill’s face. “You said to her that we had abandoned her.” 

Inhaling, as if steeling herself, Jill’s shoulders rose. “We did.” 

“I know,” Claire took a small bite of chocolate, not really tasting it. “I agree with you. We did let her down. Do you know what frightens me more than anything?” 

Chewing on her candy, Jill’s look was thoughtfully inquisitive. 

“The idea that one day, I’ll get a phone call and the crime scene address will be Lindsay’s address. That the body I’ll be processing…” 

“Don’t.” It was nearly a spit. “That won’t happen. We won’t let it.” 

Tongue pressed to her teeth, Claire’s fear threatened to overwhelm her. “She doesn’t care. She needs to care, if we’re going to beat this guy. She forgets how much she means… to everyone. Sometimes I think she doesn’t care if he gets her or not – just as long as it stops him from getting anyone else.” Brown eyes met her friend’s intensely. “Am I wrong?” 

Fingers pressed against her lips, Jill blinked slowly, painfully. “You’re not wrong. I’m not sure she even sees herself as alive.” 

“How do you mean?” 

“You have to have hope to really feel like you have something to live for. She’s sabotaging herself. Trying to keep herself from feeling too much.” 

Jill’s expression didn’t reveal a thing. “Because of Tom.” 

The lips finally twitched. “No,” she finally sighed, as if she was releasing whatever she had been hiding with that one word. “Because of Cindy.” 

\-- 

A flash of auburn and a plaid vest alerted her to the presence of one Cindy Thomas, tapping her fingers idly against her desk as she hoisted her purse over her shoulder and waited. 

To her surprise, Lindsay actually found herself faltering, hesitating at the top of the stairs, looking down at the unknowing reporter with a flash of insecure fear. 

It was so unlike her, it was disgusting. 

Catching her breath, Lindsay allowed herself a good glare before she headed down the steps, more weak-kneed than usual, resisting the urge to check on her hair or something equally ridiculous. 

“What are you doing here?” she asked sharply, not bothering with an introduction as she kept her eyes on her coffee and away from Cindy. “You know what I need on that case.” 

Cindy didn’t reply right away, but Lindsay thought she detected a bit of annoyed petulance when Cindy finally snapped, “I’m working on it.” 

She gulped a swallow of coffee, and it was too hot. She scalded her tongue. With a grimace, she allowed a cool glare at the younger girl. “So I repeat, what are you doing here?” 

“Claire called me and asked me to come in.” 

“So why aren’t you in the morgue?” 

“I’m on my way.” 

“Then I suggest you get there. I have things to do.” 

Green eyes were gleaming at her with that hauntingly curious look. Given Cindy’s inquisitive nature, it wasn’t a surprise, but it was clear as Cindy stared her down that she was looking for something. 

Whatever it was, Lindsay was in no mood to let her find it. 

After a brief glare-off, which naturally, Lindsay won, Cindy glanced away. “Look, I just… I just wanted to make sure you and I were cool.” 

The slang was annoying. The sincerity behind it was hard to resist. Folding her fingers together, Lindsay allowed herself to look up. “We’ll be ‘cool’ when you get it through your head that allowing other reporters to tag along to our meetings isn’t how we do things.” 

Doe eyes blinked at her disbelievingly. “Really?! Lindsay, you called ME. I told you where I was and you said you’d meet me without giving me much of a chance to explain my circumstances. At the time, I was with Sam. I couldn’t just ditch her. I’m not your dog. I don’t jump just because you give a command, and honestly? I think you treat Martha better.” 

It was a long-winded rant she wasn’t expecting; the red-headed temper was showing. And Cindy Thomas actually had a point. 

In this argument, Lindsay didn’t have much of a leg to stand on. 

Lips pressing against the fingers tented before her, Lindsay pretended to consider the idea. “Martha knows her place,” she finally settled for. 

It was crueler than she meant it to be, but Ashe’s words were still ringing in her ears, and at the moment, Lindsay felt more vulnerable than she had been since the moment she had kissed this young girl and felt that acute burst of feeling. 

Cindy stared at her, so obviously hurt, and in a bullpen, out in public, Lindsay couldn’t take those words back. 

She settled for biting down on her lip, searching dark green eyes for any indication as to what Cindy was feeling. 

“Fine,” was all Cindy clipped, cheeks flushed with hurt, obviously aggrieved. “Then I guess that’s all, Inspector Boxer. Thank you for your time.” 

Swiveling on her heel, little Cindy Thomas moved through the bullpen. Lindsay watched her go, and it was then she realized that a familiar brunette had been waiting and watching the entire time. As the other reporter fell into step with Cindy, she tossed back a dark glance. 

Lindsay wasn’t prepared for the ugly stab of jealousy, but she worked through it, forcing down another bitter gulp of coffee before reaching for a folder, determined to get back to work. 

\-- 

“Not to be all judgmental on the cop lady I hardly know, but is she always that pleasant?” 

It was a little embarrassing, to be nursing a wounded heart over such a stupid encounter. Lindsay had always been a little bit cruel to her. She had mellowed some, but Cindy had never forgotten her first few encounters with the hardened homicide Inspector. There had been no sappiness, not even casual agreeable. Lindsay Boxer, quite simply, was an unapologetic bitch. 

Her job called for it. 

It was one of the things Cindy loved about her. 

And another reason it was utterly stupid to be nursing whatever-the-hell she was nursing. 

Which wouldn’t have even been such a big deal if Lindsay hadn’t ruined it all by making out with her in the first place. 

“Hello?” 

Blinking, Cindy realized she hadn’t actually answered Sam’s question. “Oh…” Steps faltering, she blew out a tired breath, and offered what she hoped was a convincing smile. “She’s … she’ s just got a lot on her mind.” 

And it was true. She did. It wasn’t just the murders on her plate, but the fact that thanks to Kiss-Me-Not, she was potentially a future victim. 

And that was something Cindy hated, HATED to think about. 

“So do a lot of us, but that doesn’t give her a License-to-Bitchery.” 

Cindy turned, pausing just outside the morgue. “That’s not fair,” she said, voice flat. “Technically, as a homicide Inspector, it does. Like I said, she’s got a hell of a lot on her mind right now. She does her job well and … frankly, she shouldn’t be as friendly with a reporter as she is … usually… with me.” 

“So why does she do it?” Sam asked, brow rising pointedly. 

“Because I do my job well. And I got a mouth that won’t quit.” Sam grinned at that, and the smile was so infectious Cindy felt her mouth tilting upwards in return. “The best thing we can do, honestly, is find this Li guy and give her one less thing to worry about.” 

Sam wanted to say something else, Cindy could tell. She was obviously used to speaking her mind, and as a fellow reporter, Cindy understood the inclination. 

She was still thankful when Sam pressed her lips together, and quite obviously took the conversation in a different direction. “Then I guess you should meet up with your friend so we can get out of here.” 

With a thankful smile, Cindy nodded. “Not to be a hard ass, but do you mind… waiting out here?” 

“Oh please.” Waving her arm dismissively, Sam immediately pulled out her blackberry. “I’m not about ruffling features. Well, any more feathers. Do your thing. I’ll wait out here.” 

\-- 

“Get in here, Cindy Thomas.” 

The inflection in Claire’s tone left no room for wavering, and privately, Jill allowed herself a petty smirk at Cindy’s expense, as the young girl stood uneasily in the doorway, obviously confused. 

“Oooh-kay,” she breathed, meeting Jill’s eyes before taking another step into Claire’s private sanctuary. 

“Close the door,” Claire ordered, and once again Jill’s mouth twitched as Cindy tossed another bewildered stare in their direction, before reaching for the doorknob. 

“What’s up guys?” she asked pointedly, crossing her arms and teetering back nervously on her heels. “I have a friend waiting outside.” 

“The friend from yesterday?” Jill couldn’t help but ask. “Sam Mc-Whatsit?” 

Cindy shot her another look. “McPherson,” she corrected. “And yes. Obviously.” 

Sighing, Claire shot Jill a pointed glance. “Did Lindsay see you with her?” 

This had to have been extremely confusing for the poor little reporter. If Jill wasn’t trying so damned hard to be a big girl about all of this, she would have found it all hilarious. In a catty kind of way. 

“You mean between the nicely humiliating conversation I just had with her, in which I accidentally referred to myself as her bitch, and now? I doubt it.” 

And now the red blotches on Cindy’s cheeks made sense. Apparently she had already had a conversation with the confused and besotted Lindsay Boxer. The result had been a verbal lashing and Jill had been on the receiving end of enough of them to know that someone as virgin as Cindy didn’t stand a chance. 

Good luck, Kid, she found herself musing. 

“Allright,” Claire sighed, suddenly resigned. “Sit down, we need to talk about this.” 

Once again, Cindy’s eyes darkened with confusion. “Talk about what?” Her voice was harder than usual, but then again, she hadn’t had the best morning. 

To hell with it, neither had she. 

“About you and Lindsay and your blue balls.” 

Palm rising to her face, Claire’s fingers creased over her temples meticulously. 

“What?” she defended herself. “We had to get it out there somehow.” 

At the very least, she had managed to shut Cindy up, which was new. Round-eyed, her friend seemed a perfect mimic of a gaping fish. “What? I… Who? When – Look-“ 

“I don’t need specifics,” Claire growled, palm rising in the air. “Jill and I just thought, since this has already happened and is… obviously… affecting the group, that we should have a talk about it.” 

“What?!” The reporter’s voice had taken an altogether shriek-y quality. “No! No!” she sputtered, and Jill sighed, crossing her arms. “There will be no discussing! How did you even – you know what? It doesn’t matter, because what happened was between me and Lindsay and quite frankly, I’m not even sure I understand what happened myself-“ 

“Lindsay kissed you and then she freaked out.” The firm statement of exactly what went down once again managed to stall the sputtering engine that was Cindy’s mouth. “She told me,” Jill added, by way of explanation. Dark eyes widened, and Jill felt a pang of validation when Cindy shifted uncomfortably. “Cindy, we’re not interested in details.” 

“I wouldn’t give them to you!” she managed indignantly, and Jill fought the urge to stuff a lollipop into her mouth. 

“We wouldn’t want them,” she snapped icily. “Believe me.” 

“Cindy, calm down.” Claire was still infuriatingly level-headed, reaching over to press subtly against her elbow, reminding her of her manners. “We are not attacking you. We are well aware you weren’t the one to make the first move.” 

Cindy’s shoulders stiffened slightly. When Claire once again pressed on her elbow, Jill let out a labored sigh, and recited her mentally prepared speech. 

“Having witnessed what we did yesterday in the diner, in addition to… other bits of evidence,” And testimony, she thought with a wince, “Claire and I have decided it’s in Lindsay’s best interest to take some time with you and… figure out your intentions.” 

Cindy’s eyes squinted. “My intentions? How old do I look to you?” 

Jill pretended to think. “Twelve?” 

“Haha. Very funny. Cindy looks twelve. She’s short. Listen-“ Coming forward, Cindy’s hands pressed against the tabletop, eyes sparkling with rage. “I’m well aware of the fact that Lindsay is emotionally constipated, okay? I’m dismissing what happened as a fluke and am doing my best just to move on from it. As much as I’d like to sit here with you two dissecting any possible feelings Lindsay might or might not have for me, which by the way, sounds about as much fun as sitting through an episode of the L Word, circa Season Four. It’s just getting good again,” she added as an aside to Jill. 

Lips pressing together in a smirk, Jill grudgingly nodded. “I know.” 

“Right? Anyway – I had a point…” Losing steam, Cindy trailed off, brows knitting together. “Oh. Right. My point is I have way too much on my plate right now to worry about whether or not you two agree or disagree with my intentions. I’ve got a Chinese guy to track down, a bored reporter to babysit, two deadlines, and there’s still a serial killer after my friend. So if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to do my job. I’ll call you if I land anything.” 

Okay, they had clearly touched a nerve. 

Jill had to admit, the rant was impressive. Eyes flashing furiously, Cindy straightened and headed out, slamming the door behind her. 

“She is so twelve,” she muttered, as the silence began to settle in. 

“No,” Claire said gravely, “But she is as emotionally constipated as Lindsay. And that’s not good.” 

“Aren’t we all?” she sighed in resignation.


	4. Chapter 4

  
  
Vibrations in her hand as she manipulated the scroll wheel of the Blackberry alerted Sam McPherson to an incoming call.   


Getting a good look at the screen, she didn't stop the cheesy grin from lighting up her features as she fumbled with the buttons, and then accidentally pressed 'ignore'. 

"Crap!" Immediately, she slung her bag over her shoulder, and redialed. One finger pressed against her free ear, an attempt to minimize the noisy interference of a busy precinct hallway and crappy reception of the basement, she finally got a static-y hello. "Sorry," she answered immediately. "I pressed the wrong button." 

"I thought you had figured that thing out by now," Brooke replied, voice lovingly laced with amusement. 

"You'd think, right?" Shaking her head at her own inadequacy, Sam shrugged cheerfully. "Actually, I was in the middle of calling you." 

At this, Brooke replied quickly, "Tell me we're not too co-dependant." 

"You have a problem with it?" she asked, mildly amused. 

"It's so lesbian," Brooke exclaimed, and Sam fought the urge to laugh at Brooke's expense. "Calling each other every day fighting a 9 hour time difference? You'd think we'd gotten over the need like… five years ago." 

"Hey, don't knock the intercontinental phone sex!" she groused. "What, you want us to be boring?" 

"Your completely ridiculous fear of boredom tells me that will never happen." 

It was an affectionate statement, and despite herself, Sam found herself blushing like a love-struck adolescent, and feeling silly as a result. Ducking her head as a passing officer looked her way, she leaned into the doorway. 

"Brooke, I hate to break it to you, but when you're sleeping with a woman exclusively? Kinda makes you gay." 

"Hearsay," she heard, before she heard a throaty chuckle. "So how goes the Pride? Feeling Queer yet?" 

Hesitating slightly, Sam glanced back at the closed door to the morgue. "Actually… I kinda tabled that for now." 

"You tabled your writing assignment?" 

"Oh, it's the Pride Parade, Brooke. Like it'll be really hard to write THAT up." 

"Hey, until you're stuck in the Mutter Museum at three am, shooting a big ass giant colon? I wouldn't complain." 

"The thrill of the Travel Channel," she agreed solemnly. "Seriously, though. Remember I told you about my babysitter and her crazy lady cop who hates me?" 

"First impressions die hard?" 

"Harder," she nodded. "But they're looking for some guy in China Town - some gang member with the last name Li. Cindy and I are gonna try to find him." 

The other woman fell silent. "So… instead of doing a nice and safe writing assignment about the Pride parade, you and the red-head are heading into the Chinatown underground to infiltrate some gang contacts to locate a murderer?" 

Sam winced at the description. "Okay, when you put it that way, it sounds dangerous." 

"Maybe because it is?!" The playfulness was gone completely. "Sam, come on. We talked about this. Recently." 

"Yes, okay? I know." Slumping against the wall, Sam felt like a chastised child. "But I'm BORED, Brooke." 

"I seriously have no idea what to do with you." 

"You know exactly what to do with me," she charged simply. 

That at least, seemed to buffer Brooke's ruffled feathers. "Well, what if I’m over there to do them?" 

"Hmm?" 

"We finished shooting early. My A.P. can handle it from here. I can be on a plane and get to San Francisco in sixteen hours." 

A flash of hope stuttered inside her. "Seriously?" 

"We can be Pride-Y together." 

"Hooray." Behind her, the door slammed open, and jumping slightly at the noise, Sam glanced back to discover the aforementioned red-head stalking to her, face significantly more crimson than it had been before. "Babe, I gotta go. Babysitter looks pissed. I'll see you soon." 

"Love you, Sammy." 

She smiled. "Backatcha." Disconnecting the line, she lowered the phone just in time to stare curiously at the mottled face. "So… not a good conversation?" 

"Let's just go," Cindy breathed, reaching up to push a bang behind her ear, in a move that was oddly reminiscent of Brooke. 

\-- 

"Got a minute?" Lindsay Boxer asked, poking her head into the office of her ex-husband and current boss. 

Tom Hogan, digging through paper work, snapped his head up and waved his hand to her. "Please," he begged, dropping the pen and shoving the folders to the side. "Save me from the mountain of crap that is my job." 

"Do it on a daily," she quipped, and after a moment of stalled silence, stepped inside his domain, hands in her back pockets. Easy friendship with Tom happened only when she wasn't expecting it. When she thought TOO much, she remembered too much, and her ex was now a married man. 

Still, the transition from lover to friend was, all things considered, easier than she expected. When she drew that line, she found herself with no real need to cross it. 

"What up?" he asked, with a kind smile, motioning to the chair in front of his desk. "Got anything on the club murder?" 

"Working on a couple angles," she said automatically. "Actually, I was hoping you could help with that. We got a tip that he could be a member of the Joe Boys." 

He nodded knowingly. "Yeah, Jacobi filled me in. I've got a couple contacts in Chinatown, not as many as I do with the Latinos, though." 

"Well, everyone has to specialize," she conceded, and got an eye-roll in response. "It's okay. I'm not out of options yet." 

"Right. Your many mysterious 'sources'," he replied, air-quoting with a smirk. 

"Bite me," she said heatedly, feeling un-naturally defensive. "Those sources have saved your job on many occasions." 

"Hey, I'm not complaining!" he back-pedaled, hands up in a surrender position. "Your sources have my thanks. You can also thank her for the cookies she sent for Christmas." He patted his stomach. "Hard as a rock but saved me from a vending machine run at midnight." 

Of course, Cindy WOULD sent cookies to the head of the police precinct. 

A pained smile flashed on her face, and desperate for distraction, she found herself asking, "How's Heather?" 

Seemingly amused at her descent into out of character politeness, Tom grinned broadly. "She's good," replied the newlywed. "Getting back into the groove of things. Settling into the married life." 

"Great," she replied, a little distantly. 

Watching her carefully, Tom finally leaned forward, large hands clasped together as he eyed her with kind brown eyes. "Lindsay," he began frankly. "How are you holding up?" 

Normally, such a frank question would merit some kind of bullshit answer, perhaps a snide remark. The scathing encounter this morning with Cindy didn't leave her with the energy, especially with Tom's kind, intense expression studying her closely. 

With a sigh, she shrugged wearily. "It's taking it's toll," she responded, knowing that he'd know immediately what she was referring to. "And Asshole Agent Ashe isn't making things any better by stalking me and prophesying doomsday scenarios on my doorstep." 

"Get used to it," he answered sharply. "Until we catch this guy, that one is your shadow." 

"He's weird, Tom." 

"You're weirder," came the snap. "And I'd rather have you stalked than have you dead." 

He meant it, of course, and despite herself, Lindsay found herself battling a smile at the statement. 

"Because you like to see me miserable?" she asked airily. 

"Consider it a boss' perk," he responded, but his expression was serious. "That guy's still out there, Lindsay. We can't afford to get lazy." 

The assumption that she had glossed over the serial killer's imminent threat was insulting. "You know, back when he wasn't threatening me directly, everyone else gave up on him. You, Claire, Jill, Jacobi- I was the only one that kept looking. I was the one that kept going after him-" 

"At what cost?!" The statement was a yell, and Lindsay kept silent, the pink elephant large in the room. He blamed the devolvement of their marriage on Lindsay's obsession with the serial killer - that wasn't new. "You gave up everything to find that guy and what it got you was him coming after you. Now he's coming at you again, and he wants to do one better." Dark eyes furrowed in earnest anger. "Lindsay, don't let him beat you." 

"So what? Living afraid? Living in a bubble? Looking over my shoulder and around every corner, that's winning?" The anger was real, frustration bottled up that came out ready to burst, and Tom had always been an easy target. "Keeping me so focused on my own life I can't focus on saving others? That's winning?" 

"Lindsay-" 

"You can't tell me what it is to LOSE something, Tom!" she snapped, rising out of her chair, eyes suddenly stinging with unshed tears. 

"The hell I can't!" He nearly spit back at her. "I lost you to him long before I asked you for a divorce, Lindsay." 

She stared at him, the angry expression, the wild look of concern. 

Shaking her head at the impossible emotion, she headed for the door. "I wouldn't worry, Tom. You recovered just fine." 

"Stop." That was an order, and despite herself, she froze, eyes closing, angry at herself for allowing this to happen. "Lindsay." 

Against her better judgement, she turned on her heel, and encountered a apologetic expression on her ex-husband's face. Christ, he was feeling sorry for her. 

"Don't," she commanded, rough voice betraying her anger. "I'm not in love with you anymore, Tom." She said it, and she heard the words, and to her astonishment, she realized that statement was actually true. "But you telling me not to let him beat me? Say I take that advice. Say I run with it, and I keep my head held high and let Ashe stalk me. I still can't get what I want. There's still a psycho after me, and that makes me poison, to anyone I want." 

"That's not true," he said, automatic, desperate to be a cheerleader. 

With a lost shrug, she bit her lip and shook her head. "Yes it is. I'm done wasting people's time." 

\-- 

Sam McPherson leaned over to inspect a tray full of turtles, stacked on top each other. 

Between that, and the fish who had to lay on their sides to just stay underneath the barely filled water tanks, she felt culturally insensitive and vaguely ill. 

"Lily," she breathed as a prayer to her environmentalist friend, "I think I just became a vegetarian." 

Wiping at the sweat at the back of her head, she resisted the urge to buy a turtle and save him from a soup existence. She could almost hear Brooke speaking logically in her ear: Come on, Sammy, where would she stash a turtle in a hotel room? 

"I should buy Mac a turtle," she said, cocking her head at the thought. The little sister she and Brooke shared appreciated aquatic pets, though Sam's mother already complained incessantly about the intricate aquarium that had been bought by Sam and Brooke, and now had to be maintained. 

"Buy who a turtle?" Cindy finally appeared, looking sweaty and a little tired. 

"My little sister," Sam explained, but thoughts of freeing the poor little turtles flew from her mind. "So? What's the word?" 

They walked quickly through the fish market, and Sam had to duck underneath a particularly large tuna as they leaned together to compare notes. In this part of Chinatown, away from the tourist stalls with the little drums, firecrackers and bamboo plants, they were conspicuous, but Sam supposed, as they pulled out the map to investigate, they could pass as lost tourists who had gotten off track. 

"Okay," Cindy breathed, looking at the pen marks they had scrawled against the incomprehensible diagram that was Chinatown. "So we were right about this being Joe Boys' turf. My guy said that there has been talk about the guy around here, but as a people, Chinese don't talk." 

It was another aspect of cultural identity, and Sam found herself nodding grimly. "They take care of business on their own, definitely." 

"I was able to get the location of three major hang outs," Cindy continued, and with a red pent, circled three areas in their grid neatly. It drew a neat triangle. 

Sam studied it closely. "Cool," she sighed, giving Cindy half of the map so they could view it better together. "That leaves…" Pulling out her blackberry, she glanced at her notes. "Approximately four registered Li's between the ages of fifteen and twenty-five registered in that area." Her feet ached from the walking. "Four's better than thirteen." 

"Narrowing it down at least," Cindy agreed. "I really want to go further, but I have a feeling if we start questioning these guys about a murder suspect it might get dangerous, and Lindsay has a tendency to arrest me when she feels I've overstepped my reporter bounds." Their eyes locked. After a moment, the other girl smiled. "You know, whenever someone tells me that my job is glamorous, I feel the compelling urge to clock them in the head." 

It was a familiar mantra. "Yeah," Sam agreed, folding up the map and handing it back to her. "Not that the invention of 'Google' hasn't helped, but don't you wish real reporting was like what it is in television? You know, flash cut and boom - you've rifled through all the thousand year old articles and found the one you're looking for?" 

"Try eleven biker bars and thirteen pawn shops to find one laptop," Cindy added, wincing at the thought, as they once again squirmed their way through the busy fish market. "I'm usually the lone Ranger kinda gal with this stuff. It's kinda nice to have like-minded company." 

"Those who slave together, stay together," Sam quipped, and then grew silent. "You know," she began, a little more carefully now. "You might be on your own tomorrow though." At Cindy's questioning glance, she shrugged. "Brooke's getting on a plane, meeting me here. Keeping me on the Pride-y straight and narrow." 

There was a flash of something in Cindy's eyes, but she smiled at the news. "That's great," she said. "It'll be nice to meet her." 

"Yeah," she replied, but found herself furrowing her eyes at the obvious distracted tone. "So… Bitchy Lady Cop will be happy with this," she offered, holding up the map. "Saved her some work." 

Cindy nearly grimaced in response. "Yeah, I guess. Doesn't really distract from the big picture though." 

"What's the big picture?" When Cindy hesitated, Sam frowned. "Come on, Cindy. You can trust me." 

Biting down on her lower lip, the other girl finally seemed to give up, voice lowering as they kept walking. "I know, but I promised Lindsay." 

There was a word for Cindy: Whipped. 

"Okay," she finally agreed, and they walked on, the silence between them suddenly awkward. 

"So, speaking of google," Cindy began, breaking with an easy conversational tone. "On a whim, I ran a search. I'm a little impressed." 

With a muted smile, Sam nodded humbly. "Backatcha." 

"That piece on the Iraq war, about the food supply shortage?" Cindy's shoulders came up. "It gave me chills." 

The memory that came with it was a painful one. "Yeah…" she managed, bright expression dimming somewhat. "It's gonna be hard to forget. So you're going to ask me how I went from doing hard-hitting war stories to Pride puff pieces?" 

"The thought had crossed my mind." 

"I was almost kidnapped," she admitted roughly. "The guys I was with, their unit? A car bomb exploded while we were delivering food supplies to civilians. We barely made it out. Two of them died. Brooke and my family they just… they flipped out. After that, I promised Brooke I'd take it easy." 

"That's quite a sacrifice," Cindy said, and Sam immediately knew she was talking about curbing the baser instinct for the truly meaningful story, in favor of fluffy lifestyle pieces. 

"I know what it's like to almost lose somebody," she conceded, thinking immediately to the always hateful memory of seeing Brooke mowed down by a vindictive Nicole Julian on prom night. "And I wasn't ready to die yet. It sounds cowardly, doesn't it?" 

"No," Cindy answered immediately. Her eyes were dark, expression distant. "It takes a lot to put someone else's needs before your own." 

"Well… puff pieces aren't gonna cut it," Sam decided. "But you know? I'm really into music, and for a while, I was doing some pretty awesome stuff. I got this interview with this up and coming indie singer? It went over well and I really liked it. She used to have a band that was huge in LA, Elphaba Thropp, but now she's gone solo." 

"Wait." A hand on her elbow forced her to stop. "Dusty? Dusty Sims?" 

Sam blinked, surprised at the obvious familiarity. "Don't tell me you know her?" 

"Please, when it comes to indie rock, I know everyone." Cindy looked adorable star struck. "How did you know Dusty Sims?" 

A reluctant smile spread over Sam's lips. "She's Brooke's ex-girlfriend." 

"God, that's incestuous." 

Sam gave her a look. 

"We're gay step-sisters in love," she replied flippantly. "You can't get more incestuous than that." 

\-- 

"So explain to me why exactly it is so friggin' hard to get through Lois Lane's head that sharing with reporters is off-limits?" 

The greeting from Lindsay Boxer forced Claire to look up from the body she was currently examining. 

Eyeing her haunted friend, Claire considered her words carefully, concentrating on getting her tweezers into the cavity at just the right angle before she began, "Only if you explain to me why it bothers you so much." 

The question was meet with stalled silence, and then it sunk in. 

"Jill told you," Lindsay remarked flatly. 

With a small nod and a faint smirk, Claire nodded. "'Fraid so." 

Hissing, Lindsay stomped her foot, looking suddenly like a petulant child. "Aw, man!" she drawled, Texas accent more pronounced. 

"Well, we don't have to talk about it." Agreeably, she smiled supportively. "Obviously, if you're not ready." 

"I just don't see the point!" Lindsay growled, flipping black tresses over her shoulder and out of her eyes. "Talking about things changes nothing. I don't see why everyone is so amped on explaining themselves and their emotions." 

"Well, some people consider confiding in friends a release," Claire explained diplomatically. 

"And some people just can't seem to stop with the confiding!" Lindsay pouted, scuffing the ground of the morgue with her boot as she leaned against an empty metal counter. "I bet Cindy's told her everything by now." 

"Now that's not fair, and you know it." 

"I don't have to be fair," Lindsay grumbled. Apparently, her emotionally constipated friend was determined to be childish about this. "I'm a cop." 

"You know you really hurt her this morning." That, at least, managed to get a startled glance up, and a guilty expression. 

"She had it coming." 

"No she didn't," Claire countered softly. "You're obviously jealous of this Sam girl and between that and your mixed emotions about your aborted affair, you lashed out." 

"Oh, fine. Take her side." 

"Lindsay, being emotionally constipated is no excuse for hurting a friend," Claire said firmly, and once again, she caught the slightest look of vulnerability flash over Lindsay's features. "I know you like her, Lindsay, and I know your reasons for trying to keep her away from you. But if you're serious about calling this girl a friend, then she deserves better than abuse and mixed signals." 

Ready to argue, her stubborn friend opened her mouth, and after a stalled minute, closed it again, looking once again to the floor, scuffing her boot along the floor. 

Crossing her arms, Lindsay mumbled faintly, "No one said you had to be so damned reasonable about everything." 

"If you wanted anything else you would have gone to Jill. Or Tom. Or even Jacobi." Lindsay froze, looking caught. "You already went to everybody." 

"Tom and I got into another fight about the Kiss-Me-Not Killer, Jacobi asked me who the hot brunette reporter was who was running around with my third grader and if she was single, and Jill told me she loves me but at the moment wasn't ready to play Cyrano, and to come see you." 

"Nice to know I'm a last resort," Claire said, amused in spite of the situation. 

"Nah," Lindsay sighed, pushing off the aluminum and heading her way. "Just wasn't in the mood to hear the truth." 

"The truth is," Claire began as delicately as she could, "That girl adores you. No amount of brunette reporters is gonna change that. Though at least we're beginning to see that Cindy's got a type." Blushing fiercely, Lindsay rolled her eyes. Gently, Claire continued, " We're gonna get this guy, Lindsay. And when we do, maybe you'll think twice about burning your bridges." 

Dark eyes met her own, and after a heated moment and an odd buzz, Lindsay glanced away, pulling out her phone, and scanning the incoming message. 

"Well, look at that," Lindsay remarked, sarcastically enthusiastic. "Cindy and her new appendage have narrowed down the Li's to two, and here are their addresses." She shoved the phone back in her pocket. "I gotta grab Jacobi." 

"Be nice!" Claire called out after her departing friend. "Or I'm grounding you." 

\-- 

"Miss McPherson." Fumbling with her hotel key, Sam was slightly creeped out when a man in a suit stepped out of the shadows, and presented her with an FBI ID. "My name is Agent John Ashe. I'd like to ask you a few questions." 

\--   


Carrying a take-out order of Chicken Tandoori and Aloo Palak (no naan), her laptop, and a rough draft of her article riddled with an editor's scratches, Cindy didn't have much room to maneuver when she realized her phone was ringing from somewhere inside her bag. 

"Crap," she breathed, and then tried some awkward juggling, transferring her laptop to the other hand and bending her knee, trying to keep her things balanced as she fished inside of her purse blindly, finally grabbing the blackberry. Straightening, she managed to answer it, but wasn't in any position to actually see the caller ID. 

Grumpy and tired, she answered her phone with an unwise, "What?" 

"Geez," Jill Bernhardt exclaimed, offended by the rude tone. "What did I do to you today?" 

"Do you want a list?" Cindy asked snidely, before sighing in reproach. "I'm sorry," she said after a moment. "It's been a bitch of a day." 

"Try having Denise for a boss," Jill returned. 

"I thought she was being nice." 

"It's wearing off. Her guilt-induced attitude can only last for so long before she starts in with the shrewery." 

"It was a matter of time," Cindy agreed, adjusting her walk as she rifled through her things. "What's going on? This isn't another awkward attempt at a talk, is it?" 

"No, you made your feelings on that pretty clear," Jill acknowledged with a sigh. "Though I have to be honest? It wasn't a picnic for me either." 

"Then how about we don't dwell?" Cindy asked, more than agreeable to a truce. "I've heard great things about moving on. The All-American Rejects wrote this great song all about it." 

"See, this is why sometimes I think you're twelve," came the flat response, and drew an eyeroll in return. "Fine. I'm all for not dwelling, but I need you to promise me something before we do." 

"Promise you something?" A sinking feeling in her stomach accompanied a sudden fear. "You're not going to make me talk about my intentions again, are you?" 

"No forget your intentions. I just want you to be nice to Lindsay." 

The favor was the oddest she had heard in a while. "Shouldn't she be getting this conversation about me?" 

"Oh, just promise me that you won't hurt her, okay? That's all I want. No wisecracks, no sputtering aggrieved excuses, just give me your word, as a friend, that you'll be nice to her even if she continues her reign of bitchery." 

"Seriously?" 

"Yes, seriously." 

Eyes on her teetering stuff, Cindy didn't know whether to be annoyed or bewildered. It made more sense to just humor Jill and forget the whole conversation ever happened. "Look, I don't understand why I would even get the chance to be MEAN to Lindsay, considering I haven't seen her all day, and she seems to kinda not want me around…" 

"Cindy." 

"But I'll be nice!" she insisted. "I promise. If, by some miracle, I see Lindsay, I'll be nice." 

"Good," came a gravelly familiar voice, and Cindy's eyes snapped up. "Because she's standing right here." 

Pushing away from Cindy's apartment door, Lindsay Boxer wore a curiously meek expression, as she smoothed her palms down her jeans, and stared at her uneasily. 

Stunned, Cindy dropped her Indian food.


	5. Chapter 5

"So… I'd offer you something to drink," Sam began, turning away from the desk where she deposited her things and back to the handsome agent with the silly hair. "But this hotel and my paper aren't much for perks."   


"Thank you, I'm fine," he answered politely, moving past pleasantries fairly quickly. "This won't take long." 

Being accosted in a dark hallway wasn't Sam's idea of fun, and the resulting intimidation that came from a brooding handsome agent flashing a badge at her didn't give her much patience. 

"So?" she asked, head tilting expectantly. "Let's get going then." When he just stared at her, she added, "I've got an article to write." 

The corners of his mouth twitched a bit, and then he squinted, glancing down at his phone, as if he was consulting. "I understand you've seen quite a bit of Cindy Thomas during your stay here in San Francisco." 

The mention of cute little babysitter drew a frown of recognition. "And that involves the FBI because?" 

"It doesn't," he admitted, "At least not directly. But Cindy Thomas is indirectly involved in a case of mine, and I was hoping for your help." 

It was a frank, if not surprising statement. "You don't even know me." 

"I'm with the FBI," he reminded her. "And thanks to your profession, getting to know you is simply a matter of a search in any database." 

Sam considered this. "You know that pot bust was total bullshit." 

"I'm sure it was, Ms. McPherson, but quite obviously, I'm not here for something that happened in college. I'm here because a woman's life is in danger, and she has an incredibly thick skull." 

In the last few days, only one person she had met warranted that description. "We must be talking about Lindsay Boxer." 

His mouth twitched again, the smallest hint of a smile. 

\-- 

Seconds after the brown bag of pungent smelling take-out landed on the floor, Cindy Thomas was already cursing, kneeling down to retrieve it. 

Feeling uncharacteristically awkward, Lindsay pulled her hands out of the back pockets of her jeans, and smiled lamely, venturing a helpful, "I can grab something." 

"I'm two feet from the door," Cindy snapped, head jerking up long enough for green eyes to flash at her. "I can handle it." 

So the little reporter was still the tiniest bit upset.

Head ducking, Lindsay stepped back, allowing Cindy to get to her front door. When the younger woman struggled with her key, her mouth tightened and she stepped forward, reaching for the takeout bag and the laptop. 

"Lindsay…" 

"Stop being stubborn," she ordered flatly, not even bothering to pretend to ask for permission as she firmly took the items from her friend, curling the computer under her arm. 

"What are you doing here?" Cindy asked, filling the silence while struggling to jimmy the key in her lock. 

"I got your text," Lindsay answered, and found to some embarrassment, she was actually staring. The staring was new. Infatuation never sat well with Lindsay, and the fact that at the moment she was eyeing her friend like some love-starved idiot, was embarrassing. Flushing, she glanced away, pretending to adjust the Indian food in her hands. "Jacobi and I made the arrest a few hours ago." 

"He confessed?" Cindy asked, curiosity overtaking the lingering animosity. 

"For a banger, he was pretty green." Crossing her arms, Lindsay allowed a gentle smile, shoulder pressing up against the wall, glancing down to Cindy. "Anyway… I thought you'd like to know. We couldn't have gotten him without you." 

It was a remarkably generous statement, but clearly Cindy wasn't ready to be buttered up. Her eyes met Lindsay's, lingered, and then glanced away. "Well, that's what I’m here for," Cindy muttered, finally forcing the lock, opening the door with a twist of the knob. "Your own personal Google." 

The hurt tone was enough to force Lindsay forward. "Hey." With a warm palm, she breathed out uneasily. "About before. You didn't deserve that." 

"No, I didn't," Cindy returned easily, shoulders straightening and offering her friend a frank stare. 

At least Cindy was finally growing a pair. "I'm sorry," Lindsay said simply, struggling. 

"Did Jill and Claire tell you to come over here?" 

The accusation took her by surprise. "What? No. Why?" 

"Because there wouldn't be any other reason to have you show up here apologizing unless they guilt tripped you into coming here." 

That Cindy actually believed that was depressing. 

"Don’t worry," Cindy said, misinterpreting her guilty look. "I promised Jill I'd be nice." She headed through the open door. "Are you coming in?" 

\-- 

"Burning the midnight oil?" Tom Hogan looked awkwardly pleasant, as he knocked on Jill's open door. 

Pained at the pleasantry, Jill leaned back, arching her spine in an effort to give her tense muscles some relief. "I've got court in the morning. I need to make sure I have a solid case." 

"Oh." He nodded politely, looking like a bit like a rooster as he did so. "Good luck with that," he said, after a moment of stilted silence. 

Not in the mood to the play this game with Lindsay's ex, Jill dropped her pen and fixed him with a frank stare. "What do you want, Tom?" 

The man actually shrunk a little, and the sight of it caused a small smile to form on Jill's mouth. "You lawyers," he began, with a reluctant chuckle. "You really do like to get to the point." 

"That is what they teach in those expensive law schools." 

"It's about Lindsay," he announced, drawing further into the room. "We had a fight today." 

"I'm not your marriage counselor, Tom," Jill sighed, suddenly annoyed. 

"It's not like that." 

"Good, because Lindsay's not your problem anymore." 

"You and Claire act as if I stopped caring about her." He seemed insulted by that. "It doesn't work that way, Jill." 

"You broke her heart," Jill reminded him, and looked down at her paperwork. She had been battling a grumpy attitude the entire day, and because she ultimately believed she was a good person, and only wanted the best for Lindsay, had put in a call to Cindy; her own way of trying to speed whatever it was that was happening along. 

That didn’t mean she was ready to deal with Lindsay's actual ex. 

"I still care about her," he enunciated, now reaching the end of her desk, features in an angry scowl. "Maybe more than I should." 

Exhausted, Jill merely gave his left hand a pointed glance. "The ring on your hand suggests you do otherwise." 

"As a friend, Jill. I'm worried, okay? She came into my office and started spouting this defeatist bullshit about not being able to have who she wants-" 

Jill's brow furrowed in concern. If Lindsay resorted to spilling her guts to Tom, then things really were getting out of hand. 

"And what, Tom?" 

"And it worried me, okay?" He tugged on his tie, an erratic gesture. With a flushed face, he turned away, seemingly to get a hold of himself. Jill stayed seated and waited. "Just... tell me you know about whatever the hell it is she's talking about." 

If it wasn't for the fact that Tom looked so damn concerned, Jill would have told her good Lieutenant to go to hell. "I know what she's talking about." 

Brown eyes fixed on her, and he sighed, turned away for a moment, gathering his thoughts. "So you're on it. You're... helping her." 

It was an interesting moment, this sudden bond that was suddenly tangible between her and Tom, tied together by their mutual complicated love for Lindsay. 

"Tom, I will help her," she managed, voice rougher than she expected, as emotion suddenly clogged her throat. "I promise." 

\-- 

Fiddling with her phone, Sam McPherson let the words of the agent wash over her. 

"So there's a serial killer after Lindsay," she repeated, trying to make sense out of the words. "And you think he's not just targeting her but her friends." 

"We've come up with a couple theories," he told her, and Sam felt ill to her stomach, as the images he placed on the bed between them glared up at her. 

The dead women, mouth's sewn shut, looking almost peaceful in their mutilated death. 

Six months in a war torn country had given Sam more death and destruction than she could ever want in her lifetime, and she felt like a coward because of it. She had been airlifted out of the warzone, t-shirt covered in blood, holding sticky fingers against a gaping chest wound while a uniformed paramedic shouted to her to keep the pressure on while he wrapped up the shattered limb that had once been a leg. 

And she had been the lucky one. Soldiers and civilians who had lived with her, confided in her, had had no such luxury. 

Murder had always been a senseless crime, but in war, personalities were stripped. People stopped being people, and became only what the other person needed them to be in order to take their life. 

Normal men and women became murderers in war, and it was ok. 

Brooke had made her go to therapy after her adventures in the Middle East, and staring down at pictures of naked dead women, was probably not something Dr. Thompson would approve of. 

"Isn't it a little unprofessional to show these to a reporter?" she asked stiffly, unable to help the suddenly angry tone. "I came here for a Pride parade, not a murder." 

Agent Ashe just stared at her, and then continued, as if he hadn't heard her at all. "We think he's recreating fairy tales, and in his mind, he's trying to 'save' these women." 

"You think Lindsay Boxer needs saving?" 

He once again gave her that weird smile. "In a way, don't we all?" 

Sighing, Sam glanced away. "Look, Agent Ashe. Whatever you think I'm doing here, this is none of my business. I've had exactly one conversation with Inspector Boxer, and it wasn't exactly pleasant." 

"Inspector Boxer doesn't have much in her life, what she does have is a loyal group of friends who care about her." He straightened his shoulders, matter-of-fact. "It was Cindy Thomas' article that our killer picked out, read. Which means he is very much aware of Miss Thomas and her relationship with Inspector Boxer." 

"So?" 

"So I could use some help convincing her that this is a matter of some urgency." He plucked his keys from the dresser and put them in his pocket. "At the moment I don't have the proof to justify protecting Boxer's friends. And there's a disturbing sense of complacency because Lindsay Boxer and her friends see me as less of an aid and more of a harasser. " 

"Could it be because you're creepy?" 

"I find serial killers," he answered simply. "Of course I'm creepy." Stepping forward, his eyes were the darkest shade of brown. "And he's creepier. Talk to Cindy Thomas." 

"Why me?" 

"Because if it comes from Lindsay's boss or partner or myself, Lindsay Boxer will deny it. She doesn't care about herself, but she cares about her friends. If I went to Cindy Thomas directly Boxer would stonewall me. It's better than it came from you." 

"Okay, she carries a gun, and unlike 90 percent of the police force, something tells me she's actually used it," Sam snorted. "I don’t need another reason for her to hate me." 

He glanced back at her, and shrugged. "I'd rather she hate you than she be dead. The killer wants action, McPherson. And he doesn't like being forgotten. And if we're not careful he will remind us he's out there." He glanced down at the files. "I'll leave those with you. And if I see any of this in print, you'll be prosecuted." With that, he nodded. "Good night, Miss McPherson." 

\-- 

There had always been some sort of tension with Lindsay Boxer. 

Not that it was necessarily bad. Most of the time, Cindy Thomas cheerfully ignored it. She had to, for the sake of her job and the story. Initially, that meant chasing after the gorgeous Inspector like a puppy, skittering around her and being so damned good at what she did Lindsay Boxer and her remarkable friends had no choice but to acknowledge her. 

That they developed a friendship out of a professional relationship had been a pleasant surprise. To be honest, Cindy had no idea just how intimate the relationships would become. It wasn't that she had ever been lonely, exactly. Cindy had never had a problem talking to people, and thank God for that, because her job required being able to relate to everyone, getting people to trust her. She had hundreds of names in her blackberry and her thumb had formed a callous from the scrolling she did sifting through them. 

But she had come to see Jill, Claire and Lindsay as more than sources. They were friends, they were family, and the fact that she was standing in her living room being oddly irritated and annoyed that Lindsay was here at all was some kind of refreshing testament to how far they had come. 

The hero worship was gone, and in front of her now was an immensely flawed, absolutely gorgeous woman with insecurities and a tendency to ignore her own personal interests by burying herself in the job. 

It was an interesting epiphany to have, in between closing her door and putting her stuff in random places. 

Lindsay was just a woman. The infatuation had worn off, and what was left behind was the deepest kind of affection. The dangerous kind of affection. 

Plunging fingertips into her nape, and massaging lightly, Cindy gathered her resolve and turned to her friend, met brown eyes with a tentative, passive smile. 

"Have you eaten? There's enough for two in there." 

Realizing she was still holding the bag, Lindsay once again flushed. "Not hungry, thanks." 

"Lindsay." Cindy came forward, taking the bag from her friend and heading toward the small kitchenette with it. "If you haven't eaten, you're eating." 

Lindsay didn't argue, which was a bit of a surprise, but not one to count her blessings, Cindy merely grabbed two paper plates and a couple of forks. 

"Your phone is buzzing." 

"When isn't it?" She half-whispered to herself, and moved back to the living room, depositing the food on the coffee table before reaching into her bag once more and pulling out the blackberry. 

"What is it?" Lindsay asked, sharp as ever, picking up on the subtle frown on Cindy's face. 

Glancing up, Cindy's sighed. "Sam." There was that look on Lindsay's face, as her features stiffened and she turned away. 

"You two are getting… awful close, aren't you?" 

In a moment of girly weakness, Cindy considered letting the farce go on, encouraging whatever affair she and Sam were having in Lindsay's head for the sole purpose of seeing what kind of reaction that would incite. 

The idea was dismissed a half second after she thought it. Lindsay was a friend, and quite honestly, despite her youth, the whole thing smacked of too much romantic comedy mischief. 

There wasn't time for that. She pressed the 'ignore' button, and let the call go to voicemail. 

"She has a girlfriend, Lindsay." Dropping the phone back in her bag, Cindy gave her friend a resigned shrug, crossing her arms as Lindsay glanced up, met her eyes with a startled expression. "A fiercely committed girlfriend who is more like a partner, and they're completely, disgustingly in love. She won't shut up about her." 

Lindsay continued to stare at her. 

"So…" She sighed, unsure how to even begin to voice what had not yet been discussed. "Whatever you're thinking? You can stop it. I don't know if it's… jealousy or whatever- and I don't want to know," she continued quickly, when Lindsay visibly shuddered, turning away, "But if that's what it is, there's nothing to be jealous about." Lindsay pressed her lips together, but gave her nothing, and suddenly afraid that she had just jumped a really embarrassing gun, Cindy felt her cheeks flush. "And if it's not jealousy, then please let's not mention this ever again." 

"We're getting too good at that, don’t you think?" 

The question was baffling. "Good at what?" 

"Not talking about things," Lindsay answered, in that sultry gravely voice that always got her, right in the pit of her stomach. Brown eyes were clear and unwavering. "I owe you an explanation about what happened that night." 

That night. "Lindsay, I'm trying very hard to pretend that night didn't happen." 

Lindsay looked almost hurt at the thought. "Why?" 

"Because I'm a little mortified," Cindy answered reluctantly. "And we all have moments of weakness. I understand if you needed some… release." 

"Cindy, starting what we started and not being able to finish doesn't really qualify as 'release' to me," Lindsay answered, unable to help a small smile. 

"Yeah," she breathed, "Me neither. But if I think about it too long, I might put more meaning into it than what it meant, and that might drive me insane. Because you obviously regret what happened, and I'd rather we not make things any more awkward-" 

"You're right. I do regret it." 

Okay, ouch. "Right, so for the sake of me and our friendship, can we not talk about how much you regret it and pretend it never happened?" 

"I don’t want to do that either." 

"You're really just not giving me any sort of break tonight, are you?" Cindy snapped, suddenly irritated. 

"Cindy, stop talking and jumping to conclusions, and allow me to apologize for being a bad friend." Coming forward, Lindsay was now dangerously close, looking somewhat amused and sexy as hell as she stopped a foot away from her, dark eyes magnetically bright. "I don't deal well with … romantic feelings… and whatever … this is… it came at a really bad time." 

In an effort to shield herself, Cindy crossed her arms, a literal attempt to close her already open heart. "Picking at scabs, Lindsay. Picking at scabs." 

Dark, intelligent eyes darted down to the enfolded arms, and deliberately, slender fingers rose up to clasp over forearms, warm touches pulling apart the arms and placing them gently at Cindy's sides. 

"Here's the truth," Lindsay began, words softer and gentler than she had ever heard before. "I like you. I'm attracted to you." The statement produced a gasp that Cindy wasn't ready for, and it left her dizzy. Unable to stay focused on the beautiful face looking so intently at her, her eyes went to the floor. A finger caught her chin, and forced her back up. "That night, I was drunk and I let that attraction get the better of me. I didn't expect to feel these things, Cindy, and quite frankly, they scare the shit out of me, because even if I knew how to handle it, I can't risk getting involved with anyone. Not right now." 

It took a moment to process that, all that suddenly chatty Lindsay was saying to her. 

"So…" she mused, heart thumping as she sucked in a long breath, trying to keep herself calm. "You're basically telling me, that you're into me, but rather than allow me to be a friend and perhaps something more than that, you'd rather give me blue balls and let me leave you to deal with a killer on your own." 

"We have both said two completely different things." 

"And they're both completely true." Cindy felt suddenly sad. Not for herself, but for Lindsay, and her fucked up, Romeo-And-Juliet inspired world where she couldn't just be free to fall into an attraction, maybe even fall in love, because there was actual murder as a possible repercussion. "You know? Maybe you're right." 

Lindsay's brow quirked. She hadn't been expecting that. "Right about what?" 

"Maybe it's better to just push me away," Cindy answered flatly. "Because I can't help how I feel, Lindsay. I adore you, and now that I know you might possibly feel that way about me, it's going to be really hard not to want to be there for you. And that is what you wanted, right? You wanted to push me away so you wouldn't have to deal with me?" 

"That's not what I wanted." 

"Then what did you want?" 

Lindsay was staring down at her, looking at her face with an expression that, in the sudden tangible tension, became an obvious expression of longing. A dark gaze moved from her face down to her lips, and God, it was so obvious what Lindsay wanted. 

A shudder of helpless arousal passed up her spine. It would be so easy, to reach up, grab hold of the sides of Lindsay's face and plunder thin lips with utter abandon. 

But nothing had changed, and if she did that, there was every chance they would end up in a mimic of what happened before, which had helped no one and just made everything more complicated. 

"God, this is so utterly fucked up," she breathed, and crossed her arms again, trying to strengthen her weakened resolve. 

That seemed to alleviate the tension somewhat, as Lindsay seemed to snap out of whatever lust-induced haze she had drifted into. Her slow lean forward had turned into a straightening jerk. "God," Cindy heard, and nearly laughed raggedly in response. 

"What about you figure it out?" she began, breathless and taking in deep breaths. "And then-" 

She trailed off when the soft touch of Lindsay's palm pressed against her chin. "How about we catch a killer?" Lindsay asked thickly. "And then we figure it out together?" 

It was a goal. At the very least, a glimmer of hope that something would come of all this confusion.

It wasn't going to help getting involved with an incredibly messed up Inspector. 

"I'm not going to stop wanting to be there for you," she answered simply, unable to stop herself from keening into Lindsay's touch. "Not just because I'm your friend, but because I care about you. A few random bitch outs aren't going to stop me." 

At the very least, there was the smallest hint of a smile on the previously troubled face. "I've learned from previous experience that not much can." 

Green eyes locked with brown. 

"I guess we have that in common." 

For the longest second of Cindy's life, Lindsay didn't move away. She simply stared, as if frozen in place. 

Then the hand dropped, and dizzy Cindy found she could actually take in a breath, as Lindsay stepped back. 

"I should go," Lindsay began, a pregnant pause later. "Martha's waiting for me." 

Shakily, Cindy nodded. 

Offering her a small smile, Lindsay paused, hesitating. "You and me… we're good, right?" 

It was that tiny bit of insecurity that made Cindy feel like a lovesick fool. "Yeah," she managed, one hand bracing against the dresser for support. "We're good." 

"See you tomorrow?" 

"See you tomorrow," she responded, a little too chipper, and stayed in one place as she watched Lindsay toss her one last smile before opening her door. 

Breathing in deeply, she closed her eyes. 

Her phone buzzed again. 

In need of a distraction, Cindy reached for it. Once again, it was Sam. 

"For someone I've just met," she began as she answered it. "You're disturbingly needy." 

"Listen, how much do you know about Agent Ashe?" 

The question threw her. "FBI Agent Ashe?" Befuddled, her mind cleared, focused. "Wait, how do you even know him?" 

"He came to see me, Cindy. And you know what? He really creeped me out." 

"He came to see you? Why?" 

"I'm still trying to figure it out, but the guy is twisted. How long have you known him?" 

"Not long," she answered, suddenly troubled. "He came to see you?" she asked again. 

"I know, right? And he started spouting all this stuff about this Kiss-Me-Not killer and Inspector Boxer." 

"He what?!" 

"He left a casefile, Cindy. It was shady." 

"Wait, why would he do that?" 

"He wanted me to 'prod' you guys or something. I don't know, but when he left I called a friend in the FBI. We really need to talk."


	6. Chapter 6

On the morning of the famed Pride Parade in San Francisco, Brooke McQueen ducked into a yellow taxi and gave the driver the Hotel Nikko as a destination. Jet lag was a necessary evil with her line of work, but the fact that it was dark when she took off and, thanks to the wonder of daylight savings time, it was dark when she landed, had left her in an exhausted, uneasy mood.   


This wasn't alleviated by the fact that from the sound of her conversations with Sam, her girlfriend was getting an acute case of the kind of curiosity that killed cats, and had somehow hooked up with a crime reporter, and a homicide Inspector because of it. 

It wouldn't do anyone much good to try and restrict Sam once she put her mind to something. There had been countless arguments both with Sam and with Sam's mother, with Brooke the unhappy mediator that proved that. Sam believed in what she was doing, she always had, and Brooke couldn't fault her. 

Brooke always did have a shallow side, and while she had her share of photo essays that spoke of the plight of the South African segregation and once won a contest with a picture of a little girl in a trunk in a border town in Arizona, she found she had drifted. 

She had been okay with that. Brooke found her satisfaction derived from discovering culture, and didn’t always feel the need to expose everything that was wrong with it. 

It was one of her and Sam's many differences, but thank God, through the years they had at least learned how to accept them and work around them. 

They had come a long way from the anorexic popular girl and the rebel misfit who tore an entire school apart with their rivalry. 

Then again, Brooke supposed fights always were easier to resolve when there was the possibility of mind blowing make up sex. 

"So, here for business?" 

The driver gave her a friendly smile, nodding to her through the rearview mirror. His eyes were twinkling, and with a twinge of amusement, it occurred to Brooke that he was about to start flirting. 

"Just came off of it, actually," she drawled, shrugging off the trenchcoat she used for the more severe London weather, running fingers through her cropped blonde hair. Sam preferred it long, but these days, with the amount of travel she did, and the hours she kept, it was just easier to keep it chin length, pack a good leave-in conditioner and let the hotel hair dryers do the rest. 

"Oh, so you live in San Francisco." 

She smiled, "No. I live in LA." 

"So you're here for fun!" he surmised. 

She smiled mysteriously. "I hope so." She could see the grip on his steering wheel tighten, and decided it was too early in the morning to play with an over anxious cab driver. "Actually, I'm here to meet my girlfriend for the Pride Parade." 

She could see the interest deflate out of him like a balloon. "Oh," he muttered, and her mouth twitched, fighting a smile. "Well," he continued, trying to be polite. "I bet she's very beautiful." 

"She is," she assured him. "She's really gorgeous." Unable to help herself, she reached into her large purse. "Want to see a picture?" 

He shrugged. "Sure." 

Digging out the digital camera she never left anywhere without, she quickly pulled up one of her favorite pictures of she, Sam and Mac, huddled together on the rare occasion both girls were in the same state and able to visit their little sister. 

Eyes on the road, he reached back for it and carefully took a look. "I hope she's the older brunette." 

"Of course," she said, and without thinking, continued, "The other girl is our sister, Mac." 

The wheel jerked, and the taxi swerved, as the poor driver nearly dropped the camera. 

"It's a long story," she responded, face suddenly flushing. "Sam and I are not actually sisters." 

He still looked confused, but seem to give it up easily enough, handing the camera back with an apologetic smile. "Well, beautiful girls," he replied, "All of you." 

"Yeah, we got lucky," she quipped, and he grinned in response. 

"I've always wondered," he began, turning onto a windy one way street, behind a loud trolley car. "Is it easier to be with a girl? Because when I'm with a girl… sometimes I just don’t get them at all." 

Brooke considered the question. "Actually, it's harder." Curiosity piqued at the honesty behind the statement, her cab driver once again looked up into the rearview mirror. "But not because we're women," she continued, and he nodded. "We both have jobs that make us travel a lot so we don’t spend a lot of time together. So we have to make a really conscious effort to stay committed to making the relationship work. And we're just both a little stubborn and we've known each other a really long time, so if want to really piss each other off, well… we can make it happen. I mean, when we fight? We really don't hold back." 

He snorted, and nodded. "Yes, I had a girlfriend like that." 

"Though the plus side to that is we can make each other really really happy, too. Even when she drives me crazy, Sam always knows how to make me smile." Brooke's smile faltered, thinking back to the horrible phone call that came during a shoot in New York from Sam's mother, telling her as calmly as she could that Sam had been flown to the hospital in Iraq. "I honestly don't know what I'd do without her." 

He must have seen the flash of momentary pain, because his expression straightened, and after a mile of quiet, said suddenly, "Sounds like you did get lucky." 

He moved smoothly through an intersection, and a car, not looking, skidded tires as it slid to a stop as they passed. 

A phantom flash of vivid lights bearing down on her, the sound of Sam screaming her name, and the image of Nicole Julian behind that wheel, eyes glittering with hate, forced an unwelcome shudder. 

"Yeah," she said thickly, rubbing at her healed wrist, broken in three pieces thanks to that prom night incident. Three long months in a coma, and Sam had told her she had died at least once on the way to the hospital. 

Inherently, she knew that was what caused the fear. 

Maybe it was selfish, but the idea of Sam, broken like she was, and Brooke being forced to watch? 

She wasn't sure she could handle that. 

\-- 

Jill Bernhardt wasn't exactly a monster without her coffee, but she was prone to her addictions, and welcomed a good cup of brew. 

The fact that Cindy Thomas, unintentional red-headed rival, had currently handed her what appeared to be a steaming tall cup of green tea, was not amusing. 

"It's six-thirty am," she snapped, wrinkling her nose at the weed smelling concoction. "My conditions for getting my ass out here at six-thirty am was a latte. Not weed tea." 

"It's green tea," Cindy corrected, and took a swig herself, pressing the up button of the hotel elevator, and looking anxiously at the numbers above it. "And it's good for you. It's got anti-oxidants and lots of good supplements, monumentally better for you. Try it." 

"I don't like you bossy," Jill grumbled, and gently raised the cup to her mouth, trying to goad herself into taking a sip. "Don't try to foist your hippy college kid new age mumbo jumbo on me." 

"I figured you needed all the help you can get at your age," Cindy replied sweetly, stepping inside the elevator as the doors opened. "What?" she asked, when Jill directed an icy glare her way. "You can make cracks about my age but I can't throw them back?" 

Jill hated logic. 

"I'll buy you a coffee when we're done here," Cindy said, as the doors closed. "I promise." 

At least the girl was reasonable. Swigging a swallow of bitter tea, Jill blanched. "So explain to me again why we're not doing this with Lindsay?" 

"Because I don't want to go to Lindsay yet," Cindy replied distantly, eyes once again focused on the numbers rising above the elevator. "We were up all night trying to figure this thing out and so far all we've got is more questions. If we go to Lindsay now, especially with what we've got, which is a big fat zero, she'll think we're crazy and Ashe will just get suspicious." 

"We?" Jill queried. "You mean you and McWhatsit." 

"McPherson," Cindy replied hotly, "And yes." 

"I thought we told you to stop playing with her." 

"We're not playing," Cindy said automatically, and turned to her, green eyes flashing with something that appeared to be either excitement or anxious fear. "Agent Ashe came to see her last night." 

"He what?" 

Tongue darting out to moisten her bottom lip, Cindy nodded. "Yeah. He showed up at her hotel room, showed her classified information about the Kiss-Me-Not killer, and told her to basically try and con me into conning Lindsay to upping her search for Kiss-Me-Not, because he was afraid that if we forgot about him, the serial killer would 'remind' us. Tell me that's not creepy." 

It was a lot of information to handle, but it was immediately disturbing. "No," she agreed, voice low and tight, brows coming together in contemplation. "You're right. That's creepy." 

"So she called a source she knows at the FBI and obviously he couldn't tell us much but once she convinced him it was off the record? Agent Ashe isn't even ON the Kiss-Me-Not killer case." 

"Wait, what?" She stopped walking, body flushing cold at this revelation. 

"Yeah, he's an NCAVC all right, that part checks out. But he covers terrorist threats. Not serial killers. According to the paper work, he's technically on vacation." 

Jill's mind flew with the implications. "So what's he doing here?" 

"Exactly." The look in Cindy's face was somber. "Look, it could be nothing. It could be that Ashe is just this super intense guy who cares too much about murdered chicks so he came out here to give the case a kick in the ass-" 

"But what if he's not?" Jill finished, and Cindy nodded sagely. 

"But you know Lindsay. If we tell her all this then she's going to put a bullet in him faster than we can stop her. Sam and I needed to make sure you heard it all first. Everything we got. That way we know if we're on to something or if we're just being… you know… reporters." 

It was hard to battle the fear. The ache in her chest that had tightened to being nearly unbearable ever since Lindsay told them about the newspaper with her picture on it, and those black lines mimicking her mouth being sewn shut, now felt like there was a fist tightening around her heart, squeezing out the blood, making her feel faint. 

Attempting to calm herself, she took a gulp of coffee. Her eyes immediately widened when she was reminded it was tea. "GAH," she gasped, and thrust the cup out to her friend. "Get this crap away from me." 

Thankfully, the doors opened, and Jill spied a trash can. Dumping her cup, she walked with Cindy down the hallway. "So why are we meeting her here?" 

"Her girlfriend's supposed to be in from London any minute," Cindy automatically responded, looking at the room numbers on the door. "She doesn’t want to miss her." 

That piece of information was new. "Wait." Grabbing hold of Cindy's shoulder, she forced the other girl to stop. "McPherson has a girlfriend?" 

Cindy blinked, thrown by the sudden question. "Yes." 

Jill's grip only tightened. "So Lindsay has nothing to worry about." 

"What?" Looking confused, then irritated, Cindy shrugged her off. "No. God. Why does everyone - I'm crazy about Linds-" Abruptly, her friend noticed the small smirk sneaking its way on Jill's face, and shut up. "You know what? Kiss-Me-Not, creepy Agent - let's focus." 

As her friend moved away, rapped hard on the appropriate door, Jill found herself struck with the slightest bit of relief. Personal jealousy aside, at the very least Cindy Thomas had just made her feelings for the lovestruck Inspector pretty clear. 

The hotel door opened, and Sam McPherson stood in the doorway, looking haggard and twitchy. "Hi." 

"Hey," Cindy breathed, and immediately stepped in, thumbing behind her. "You remember Jill, right?" 

"Yeah," Sam said, and extended a friendly, if not a little distracted, hand shake, opening the door wider to allow them both to enter. "Excuse the mess," Jill heard behind her, as she walked into the small hotel room. "I didn't really sleep last night." 

"Lot of that going around," she breathed, but her eyes were on the bed, where beside an open laptop, and interspersed with sheets of typed ink, pictures of murdered women lay strewn on Sam's white hotel sheets. 

An unintentional bit of bile rose in her throat, and she choked slightly, tears sprouting in her eyes from the acerbic reaction. 

Soft pressure landed on the small of her back. "I've got it," Cindy breathed. "Jill gets queasy around this stuff." 

"No," she choked, voice raspy. "It's just… God - this guy is sick." 

But Cindy had already gone to work, helping Sam scoop up the photos, making room on the bed. "So did you tell her?" 

"Just the gist," Cindy breathed. 

Preferring to remain standing, Jill crossed her arms, dragging her eyes away from the photos that were now gathered up in Cindy's hands and focusing on the attractive brunette. "So Ashe left you with a case file?" 

"Every sordid detail," Sam confirmed, reaching down to pluck a page from the strewn file. "Autopsy reports, forensics…" she hesitated, eyes moving from Jill to Cindy. "There's even that picture of Lindsay Boxer in here." 

She had heard about it, she hadn't seen it. Sam pulled out a photocopied newspaper article, and Cindy's eyes followed it, looking stricken. Hesitantly, Jill reached for it, and saw the article, with Cindy's name in the byline, and Lindsay's angry face, mouth obscured by ugly black marks, a horrific mimic of the lips sewn shut on every single victim. 

"Oh my God," Cindy breathed, and Jill's palm rose to her face, trying to hold in the very real panic that emerged at such a graphic illustration. 

Blinking away the tears, she sucked in a lungful of air and handed the photocopy back. "Is your FBI source legit?" she asked, voice rougher than she intended. 

Sam nodded. "Yeah, but it's not like I can just run around naming him as a source. He'd get into serious trouble if anyone found out he gave me that info." 

"Right," Cindy said, obviously all about protecting the source. "So what do we do?" 

Both sets of eyes moved toward Jill. Sliding her palms into the pocket of her slacks, she inhaled again deeply, trying to clear her head. "I've got some legitimate sources," she began. "Obviously," when Cindy offered her a small smile. "I'll do my best to confirm your information. Once we do it, we have very good reason for questioning Ashe and what he's doing here." She glanced back at Cindy. "Can you do some snooping for me? Find out everything you can about this guy without him knowing?" 

"There's not much out there," Cindy said, looking apologetic. 

"Well, if anyone can find it, you can," she admitted, and felt a sudden surge of friendly affection for the always dependable girl. Suddenly she was ridiculously happy to have her in her life. "Chances are if he came to you, he would have anticipated that this put him on our radar…" 

"So be careful," Cindy nodded. "Got it." 

Another look, another smile. Jill's attention now landed on Sam. 

"Uh… this is going to be awkward…" Sam rubbed at her neck, looking a tiny bit miserable. "But today's Pride. And I have an article." 

"Oh, shit… so do I," Cindy breathed. "Fuck." 

The joys of the real world. "Okay," Jill nodded, throat clogging with frustration. Cindy glanced down at the crime scene photos, absently handing a couple to Sam. "I'm going to go back to the office and make some calls-" 

A click on the door was surprising, and trailing off, Jill waited, turning on her heel to discover a stunning, tired-looking chicly dressed blonde entered the room, dragging a luggage parcel behind her, crystal eyes surveying the room strangely. 

"Brooke," Sam breathed, and Jill suddenly made the connection, as the brunette on the bed rose, coming forward with a brilliant smile that told her immediately that this woman was the girlfriend. "You're here." 

Brooke had inquisitive eyes, and they missed nothing as they locked glances with Sam, the pictures in her hand, and the other two women in the room. "Hi." 

Very much aware of their audience, the girlfriend reached forward and squeezed Sam's arm, meeting her halfway for a quick kiss, before once again staring at the photos in her hand. "What are those?" 

Coming to stand beside her, Cindy shot Jill an uncertain look. 

"Oh." Sam's features seemed to freeze, and she strained for a carefree smile. "There just something I'm working on with … look this is Cindy, the babysitter, and her friend Jill, an attorney." 

Despite an obvious issue with what Sam was holding, Brooke managed a polite smile and a handshake for them both. 

"It's nice to finally meet you," Cindy said, shaking almost a little too enthusiastically. "I've heard so much about you." 

"Yeah, likewise." Brooke turned to Sam. "What are you working on?" 

"You know, I should go," Jill began, palm coming up to rest lightly on Cindy's waist, a subtle hint. 

"Yeah," Cindy blurted immediately, "Me too." 

"Take these with you," Sam responded quickly, and Jill didn't miss the way that Brooke frowned, as Sam scooted over to the bed, working quickly to stuff the remaining sheets into the folder, and handing them off to Cindy. "The two of you could use these more than I can, I'm sure. See you tonight?" 

"Right," Cindy nodded. "Sure. Brooke? Nice to meet you." 

"Bye," Jill said, and walked quickly around the pair to the door, holding it open for Cindy and then shutting it firmly behind her. 

"Wow," Cindy said, as soon as the door was shut. 

"I know," she breathed, doing her best to reorganize the hastily stacked pile of papers into a more manageable stack. "What was that about?" 

"Apparently there is ongoing conflict about unnecessary danger in Sam's job that she should not be taking," Cindy explained. "She did a piece in Iraq and was almost killed for her trouble." 

A workaholic with a dangerous job and the woman in her life worried sick. 

"That's a depressingly familiar storyline," she breathed, and a grimace of recognition flashed over Cindy's face. "Okay," Jill said, as they walked down the hallway, "Forgetting the obvious tension, allow me to regress for a moment of cheap objectification, and say … did you see the body on that one?" 

In the midst of shouldering her purse, Cindy's eyes widened. "Were you checking out Sam's girlfriend?" 

"Objectively." 

"Objectively," Cindy responded, completely serious. "Totally hot. Man." 

To fall into such cheap laughter was an utter release, and Jill leaned into her friend when the little reporter with a hard on for Lindsay slipped an arm around her waist. "Come on, Bernhardt. Let's buy you that coffee." 

\-- 

"How was your trip?" Sam asked, weaving around her girlfriend to grab hold of her bags. "You look tired." 

"Sam." Brooke's voice was hard, in that familiar tone that told Sam she wasn't going to let her get away with playing innocent. "Those were crime scene photos." 

Fighting the urge to wince, Sam forced a calm swallow, and straightened up, forcing herself to meet Brooke's disappointed look head on. "Yes, they were." 

"Of murdered women," Brooke continued, because her girlfriend had always been sharp, with a good eye. Years of photojournalism had trained her well. "You said the Chinese guy murdered a guy. In a club." 

"It's not the same case." 

"Sam." Brooke's moves were jerky, bordering on furious, as she removed her scarf, and flung it on a nearby chair. "What aren't you telling me?" 

Sam hesitated, unsure how to even approach the conversation Brooke wanted that would ruin their day. "I told you about Cindy and her group, right? It's like a murder club." 

"A murder club?" 

The M word. Right. Tongue pressing into the side of her mouth, Sam crossed her arms, and tried again. Slower. Quieter. "Lindsay Boxer was apparently threatened by a serial killer. Last night an FBI agent came to see me." 

"What?" 

"He just had some questions, but it raised some flags and I called the girls over. That's all." 

Sam let that sink in, watched as Brooke, exhausted, scared Brooke, sighed heavily and reached for her temples. "Sam…" 

"I know what you're thinking," she said gently, edging toward her, fingers wrapping lightly around Brooke's slender wrists, bringing them down. "But I'm not in any danger, okay? This is their deal. I just had a source and I wanted to help their friend." 

Brooke's jeweled eyes looked into hers, testing her sincerity. "You know, when I said that covering the Pride Parade sounded like a great assignment, and you should think about taking it, I didn't mean for this to happen." 

It was said half in jest, but the tone behind it was a serious one. Still, Brooke was warming slightly, seemingly unable to help herself as she rubbed her knuckles along the side of Sam's arm. 

Breathing in, Sam could smell the airport on her, mingled in with the same perfume Brooke had been using since college. It was her smell, and inhaling it was always refreshing, always sweet. 

Forehead tilting against her lover's, Sam rubbed gently at Brooke's biceps. "You look tired. I missed you." 

"I am tired," Brooke admitted, eyes fluttering closed, offering a hint of a smile. "And I missed you too." 

Shifting, until her nose skimmed soft skin, and her mouth found Brooke's, Sam kissed her sweetly, feeling Brooke's lips part under her attentions. Palms pressed against her t-shirt, and with a shudder of approval, Brooke's tongue darted out to lick Sam's lips lightly. 

But her hands stayed on Sam's t-shirt, a deviation from Brooke's usual hungry assault, which would have had Sam already splayed out on the bed. 

She was tired. And still a little rankled over what she had found. On the tail end of a 16 hour trip from London. Sam couldn't blame her. 

Pulling back from their kiss, Sam reached up to tenderly thumb Brooke's moistened lips. "You're tired," she repeated, and with a tender smile, continued, "How about a shower? Then maybe a nap? Before we go crazy with Pride?" 

Brooke didn't answer, but she didn't complain when Sam smoothed hands over her shoulders, drawing the trenchcoat off of her and letting it fall to the floor. "You didn't sleep all night, did you?" 

Fingers underneath Brooke's shirt, lifting up, Sam offered a small, sheepish grin. "Can you tell?" 

The shirt slipped over Brooke's head and drifted down. Sam took a moment to appreciate the sight of a topless Brooke, before reaching behind her, nimbly following the bra line with her finger tips until they slipped over small hooks. A quick snap of her wrist, and the bra straps loosened, the supportive garment also slipping. 

"You also stink," Brooke answered gravely, and reached forward, one finger looping against Sam's elastic waistband and pulling, until she was flush against her. 

Heart thumping in sudden feeling, Sam grinned widely, mischief sparkling in her brown orbs at the feel of Brooke's fingers dipping lower still. "Then I guess I'll just have to get in there with you." 

\-- 

"We need to tell Claire." 

The jovial mood that had flashed for them the second they were oogling Sam's partner had faded quickly in favor of the very real threat that they were facing now. 

It was a difficult, delicate situation, and as a reporter, Cindy had always had a hard time with delicate. It was one of many reasons she was glad to now consider Jill Bernhardt a friend. 

"If we tell Claire and not Lindsay, Lindsay might kill us," Jill breathed, taking in what had to be a scalding cup from the coffee in her hand. "It'll take me … maybe a couple of hours to figure this all out, confirm what Sam's told us from a source we can actually name, and then we can even take it to Tom." 

"And in the meantime?" Cindy asked, feeling jittery and unfocused. The jumpy feeling had nothing to do with the tea she was having, and everything to do with the unseen threat that seemed to be closing in on them. 

"In the meantime… you cover your Pride parade." Jill shot her a sympathetic glance, obviously commiserating with the prospect of even pretending to care about a routine assignment when Lindsay's life was on the line. "I'll call you if I have anything. I swear." 

Glancing over the busy coffee shop, Cindy considered her situation, and felt suddenly old. "You know, when I first heard of Lindsay Boxer, she was just a name in print. This… almost mythical figure. I followed the Kiss-Me-Not case so closely… I wanted her to catch him so bad." Across from her, Jill's expression tightened. Cindy smiled sadly in response. "She's a person, now, Jill. I thought I knew what I was getting into, when I decided to try and make her a source. I had no idea. I've never felt so out of my head in my entire life. Not that I'm that old," she continued quickly, before Jill could make the obvious crack about her age. "I know." 

Quietly, Jill seemed muse, delicate with her coffee, looking gorgeous and distant. "If it helps, none of us were expecting you either, but now we couldn't really imagine things without you." She smiled, eyes kinder than Cindy had ever seen. "I know for sure Lindsay can't." The flush that went through her sent a slightly humiliating tinge of pink to her cheeks. "We're gonna get this guy, Cindy. For Lindsay. For all of us." 

With that, Jill reached forward, palm resting over her own, looking sincere and calm and so damned beautiful and sure of herself that if she hadn't been so freaking crazy about Lindsay, Cindy would have fallen in love. 

"I know," she managed, and squeezed back. "We're gonna get this guy." 

\-- 

Sam still had nightmares. 

They used to involve Brooke, and prom night. Watching her step-sister get hit with a large car and a sickening crunch. Lately, those nightmares involved Iraq. Shattered limbs, and the stark image of a child, kneeling with a father drenched in blood. 

She knew what it was. Post-Traumatic-Stress. Her therapist had spelled it out for her, mingled in with a healthy dose of fear and uncertainty. 

In the career she had chosen for herself, uncertainty was the only constant. The other was her family, and most notably, Brooke. 

The years had not passed easily, but they had passed, and Sam suspected that a lot of the reason why they had made it this far was because of this feeling: 

Breasts, chest and thighs plastered against a strong, scarred back and deceptively lean figure. Brooke's skin was always smooth despite the scars that littered her body. Tiny indentations of puckered tissue that seemed almost too insignificant in relation to the story they told. After spending weeks apart, Sam always fingered those little lines, almost as if reacquainting herself. She did it tenderly, almost reverently, but she did it to remind herself. 

Of what she had to lose. 

Their hair was still wet, sinking into the pillows. It was a bad habit, but Sam couldn't bring herself to move. 

Sighing, she closed her eyes and curled herself further into Brooke, pressing a soft kiss against a chilled shoulder. 

Brooke keened into her, eyes closed with sleepy intentions. "You know I just want you safe," she murmured. 

Sam stilled, eyes opening, mouth lingering against Brooke's skin. "I know. It's okay, Brooke." She tightened her hold, and closed her eyes, nose buried into Brooke's mane. "Nothing's going to happen to me. I swear." 

It was a promise she told herself fiercely that she would keep.


	7. Chapter 7

**SEVEN.**  
  
"She's not here."   
  


Over her shoulder, Lindsay Boxer spotted Denise Kwon, Jill's superior, as she prepared to knock on Jill's closed office door. The attractive Asian woman looked typically severe, mouth pulling into a familiar frown as she arched a shapely eyebrow.   
  


"Oh," Lindsay said, brown eyes shifting away from the door. "Thanks."   
  


"I was hoping you knew where she was," Denise continued, stiff in her movements. "She has court in an hour and before that I needed to speak to her."   
  


Lindsay blinked, shoving hands into her back pockets. "Well," she began with an awkward chuckle. "I'm not exactly her keeper."   
  


Denise mimicked a cold smile in response. "Well, if you see her, please let her know I'm looking for her."   
  


Lindsay went for the obvious. "Have you tried her cellphone?"   
  


"I've left two voicemails," Denise responded easily. "I thought I'd have better luck with you."   
  


The sarcastic annotation left something to be inferred, and puzzled, Lindsay wasn't quite sure she wanted to figure it out. "Sorry to disappoint."   
  


"Me too." With a prim smile, Denise turned on her heel and headed back into her office.   
  


Stuck in place, Lindsay eyed the departing woman. The women did run in the same circles, but Lindsay made a point of staying away from Jill's bitchy nemesis. She didn't like the woman for one, but it hadn't been the first time she suspected there was more running underneath the surface of the ADA than just a catty dislike for her employee.   
  


"What the hell was that?" she mumbled.   
  


"What the hell was what?" Pulling out her key, Jill shot her a smile, unlocking her office door and letting herself in.   
  


"Oh. Hey." Following her friend into her office, Lindsay glanced back toward the other woman's office. It seemed too complicated to get into. Lindsay had had enough with complicated. "Nothing," she dismissed, and added, "Denise is looking for you. You have court in an hour."   
  


In the midst of putting her things on the desk, Jill shot her an amused smile. "Thanks for the reminder."   
  


"Hey, it wasn't me." Lindsay retorted. "Your inappropriately obsessed boss wanted to make sure you were on time."   
  


"Because I'm always so chronically late for important court appearances." The sarcasm wasn't lost on Lindsay, but Jill did seem distracted. "What's up?"   
  


Lindsay considered the question. "Nothing," she admitted, though she did have an open case, and a murder suspect in custody. "But what's up with you?"   
  


"What do you mean?" Jill asked, turning on her computer, giving her nothing more than a curious look.   
  


"You look distracted."   
  


"Oh." A stalled smile appeared. "It's just been an eventful morning, is all. I met your girl for coffee."   
  


"My girl?" The phrasing was confusing, a little off putting, and a lot embarrassing. "That's a little premature, don't you think?"   
  


She got a knowing smirk in response. "She's crazy about you."   
  


Ready to continue arguing semantics, Lindsay got thrown completely on her ass by the statement. "What?" A spark of lovesick giddiness got the better of her. "She said that?"   
  


Jill's resulting smirk told her she was on the verge of smiling like an idiot. Her expression straightened immediately.   
  


"Yes, she did," Jill continued, and was already typing.   
  


"Wait." Lindsay frowned, when the contradiction manifested itself. "Why did you two meet for coffee?"   
  


Jill's focus was still on her computer. She didn't meet Lindsay's questioning stare. "What. We're friends. We can't have coffee?"   
  


"It's a new development," Lindsay responded, and suddenly felt uncomfortable, particularly in the wake of Jill's still vivid confession of her feelings on Lindsay's burgeoning affection for the younger reporter. "Oh, God, Jill. Tell me you didn't go and try to give her some sort of talk."   
  


Fingers stilled on the keyboard, and Lindsay knew immediately it was the wrong thing to say. "Lindsay, please. We're not in high school anymore. I'm allowed to feel conflicted and I'm allowed to rise above it. There are more important things to worry about."   
  


And now she felt like a complete asshole. Nice. "Right," she managed, suddenly choked. "Sorry."   
  


"Did you say Denise was looking for me?" Jill asked, breaking into the awkward silence.   
  


"Yes," Denise said, swinging into her office with that stiff walk of hers. "I was."   
  


Lindsay knew immediately she had been dismissed. "I better go," she said, and shot her friend an apologetic glance. "I'll see you later."   
  


The stressed expression on Jill's features as she nodded was hard to miss.   
  


\--   
  


"Wow," Sam McPherson commented as she took hold of the slender hand curving into her palm, inspecting the hooting and hollering crowd around her, jostling shoulders and spilling beer. "This is really really gay. This is mega gay. This is gargantuan gay."   
  


She received a squeeze of pressure in return, before her beautiful girlfriend let go and once again resumed in fussing with her absurdly expensive digital camera. "Have I mentioned how much I love this thing?" Brooke asked, of a one-track mind, which usually happened when she was in the presence of her favorite toy, outside of the bedroom, at least.   
  


"Every day, all the time."   
  


A warm glance shifted her way, before something took hold of Brooke's attention, and she lifted the lens up, snapping a quick succession of photos when a parade float passed with dancing drag queens and a guy in the most suggestive cod piece she had ever seen.   
  


The view was astounding, but Sam still preferred the imagery beside her. Brooke, unaware of her spectator, was vividly absorbed, wearing a look of focus and concentration on her face that only happened when she held the camera in her hands.   
  


Who would have thought that Brooke McQueen, Homecoming Queen, would have felt most at home behind the camera, rather than in front of it?   
  


If Sam really thought about it, it was completely ironic, how they both turned out to be some kind of journalist.   
  


"You're staring."   
  


Shoving her recorder in her back pocket, Sam offered as innocent a shrug as she could muster. "You're hot with that thing."   
  


In response, Brooke swiveled and quirked her finger, forever cementing Sam's adoring smirk in digital form.   
  


"You're going to let me use a few of those for my article, right?" she asked, distracted when a particularly butch looking woman accidentally knocked shoulders with her.   
  


"Oh, what, all of a sudden you care about your article?" Brooke's loving smile removed any sting that might have been in those words.   
  


Years ago, Sam would have taken offense anyway. She used to be so desperate to find fault with the evil Brooke McQueen. Now she was her lesbian lover.   
  


And they were at Pride.   
  


It was difficult to describe what she felt, as she glanced over the crowd of eclectic supporters. There were the flamboyant and the impossibly normal. There were shirtless dancing boys, women in leather and bras straddling motorcycles, and a young couple carrying a beautiful baby wearing a rainbow painted t-shirt between them. There were little old ladies, holding hands.   
  


Sam found herself transfixed by the image.   
  


She thought about Cindy Thomas and her fledgling, stalled romance with Lindsay Boxer, and then remembered sitting beside a hospital bed; seventeen years old and scared out of her mind because she had just realized she had fallen in love with her step-sister and her nemesis and it didn't even matter because Brooke was in a coma and might never wake up.   
  


"I think I care about you," she answered honestly. "And I think we're both really lucky to be here. And I feel like celebrating that."   
  


She was devastatingly sincere.   
  


A moment later, Brooke lowered her camera and leaned forward; catching her mouth in a sweet, hungry kiss that told Sam she felt the same way.   
  


A couple of wolf whistles erupting around them sent a sudden flush down her spine. Sam could feel Brooke's mouth against hers pulling into a smile, but it didn't stop her lover from kissing her again.   
  


"Oh, God - sorry."   
  


Hearing Cindy Thomas' apology was enough to lean back slightly, to discover the red-head (and red-faced) reporter now standing right next to them, wearing a sheepish smile and standing beside a grinning kid.   
  


"Hey," she greeted, circling an arm around Brooke's waist and offering a welcoming smile. "Didn't expect to run into you so fast."   
  


"Oh, you know…" Cindy's smile was strained. "I just wanted to try and get this over with." She glanced at the boy beside her with a sharp hiss. "That's so not how I meant for it to come out."   
  


"It's cool," he said easily, shifting uneasily as he glanced at the crowd around him. "This is … kinda overwhelming."   
  


"Guys, this is Thaddeus Prescott. His father was one of the leading figures of the gay community, until he was murdered a few weeks ago."   
  


Sam's smile faded. "Oh, God. I'm sorry."   
  


Thaddeus nodded his head, glancing away. "It's cool," he said again.   
  


"Lindsay was able to arrest his murderer," Cindy continued, squeezing on his wrist and earning a small smile in return. "And Thaddeus is now living with his father's partner, Bruce. He's a dress designer, and he's actually put together some of the costumes for the pride parade." Cindy's eyes landed on Sam. "He's offered to let himself be interviewed if you're up for it."   
  


Cindy didn't know how to quit. It was an admirable quality.   
  


"Do you think he'd let me take pictures?" The appeal of gorgeous made frocks and drag queens in them was too much for the photographer in Brooke to resist.   
  


"I think he'd love it. There's a whole tribute to Dakota this year," Cindy confirmed, and nodded her head behind them, instructing them to head through the throng.   
  


"Thanks," Sam responded, and smiled kindly at the boy beside her. "Thanks," she added for his benefit.   
  


He smiled wanly, but saved his more focused attention for the smaller reporter, following her as Brooke shot her an excited smile and moved with them.   
  


"I didn't expect to see you here," came a dark voice, just beside her ear.   
  


"Holy FU-" Jerking away, Sam found herself suddenly standing beside Agent John Ashe. The FBI Agent looked completely out of place in his severe jacket and tie. Beads of sweat were beginning to appear on his temple and forehead. The heat was getting to him. "You scared the crap out of me."   
  


He didn't smile. "Do you remember what we discussed?"   
  


Glancing uneasily toward the trio making their way through the crowd, Sam watched as Brooke turned, waiting for her.   
  


"This is so not appropriate," she hissed, keeping her eyes off of him at on Brooke, shooting her an easy smile and a 'be right there' motion with her hand. "I'm doing my job, and you're not a part of it."   
  


"You've obviously been in contact with Cindy Thomas."   
  


"Yes," she agreed. The irritation was quickly approaching anger, as Brooke's observant eyes picked out the agent. Sam shuddered as Brooke's mouth turned into a frown. Turning quickly, she finally faced him. "Listen to me. Whatever you're doing? You're not going to do it to me. I’m not a part of your murder investigation. Did I talk to Cindy? Yeah. I told her you're a creepy as hell agent who isn't even supposed to be here, and if you spent half as much time trying to find this guy as you do stalking people, you might actually be able to save someone. Until then, I think you should stop asking questions and get ready to answer them when the cops find out you don't belong here."   
  


She didn't wait to hear his response, instead turned on her heel and fought through the crowd to intercept Brooke.   
  


"What was that?"   
  


"Just some guy who wanted an egg for him and his partner. Come on. We're gonna lose them," she mumbled, grabbing hold of her hand and pulling her after Cindy, feeling the burning gaze of Agent Ashe on her back, and trying desperately to run away from it.   
  


\--   
  


"So now I'm lying for you?" Denise Kwon crossed her arms, looking proudly bitchy as she shot her subordinate an irritated frown. "This better be good."   
  


It was difficult to shake off the sudden anger that Lindsay's stupid little retort had caused, but Jill managed it with a deep breath and a grimace. "Thanks for that," she managed grudgingly, skirting around her to close the door. "I can't let Lindsay know what we're doing quite yet."   
  


"You're assuming I've agreed to it," Denise pointed out, and Dense could have been so attractive if she wasn't such an unapologetic bitch.   
  


"I need your help," Jill said, coming forward and crossing her arms, hoping against hope that any lingering guilt from Denise over drunkenly ruining Jill's relationship with Luke would manifest itself and make this happen for her. "I need a contact at the FBI that could on the record confirm that Agent Ashe isn't supposed to be here."   
  


The corners of Denise's eyes crinkled in contemplation. "The FBI agent in charge of the Kiss-Me-Not Killer."   
  


"Yes," she confirmed, voice lowering to a whisper. "I have reason to believe that he's here until false pretenses."   
  


"Why would he lie about something like that?"   
  


"That's a good question. We can only ask that if we can confirm for a fact that is in fact the truth."   
  


Denise's frown only grew graver. "That's a very serious accusation, Jill. Where would you get an idea like that?" Her expression changed, and she rolled her eyes. "Oh right. Your reporter friend."   
  


Which apparently was about as impressive as being friends with a homeless person, in Denise's book.   
  


"Whether or not you like Cindy Thomas, you know she checks her sources."   
  


"But she can't get this one to go on the record?"   
  


"This isn't about a story," Jill snapped. "This is about the life of a Police Inspector. I'm asking you for a favor, Denise. You know me well enough to know I wouldn't ask you of all people, unless it's important."   
  


The other woman looked at her then, an odd expression clouding her features before it dissipated, in favor of the harder, more familiar Denise she had the misfortune of knowing. "Do you know what I don't like about you?"   
  


Frustration clogged her throat. Pasting on a cold smile, Jill shrugged. "Do I have time for this? Do you have a list? I have court in an hour."   
  


"You are so damned good at what you do, but you refuse to take this job seriously."   
  


"I take this job very seriously."   
  


"Banging the defense lawyer on your desk isn't taking it seriously. Openly flaunting a friendship with a reporter isn't taking this seriously. Lying to a police Inspector-   
  


"Oh really?" she managed, voice an angry whisper. "Because you're the paradigm of police integrity? Or is getting drunk and making a spectacle of yourself at a lieutenant's wedding something you save for special occasions?"   
  


It was a low blow, and she regretted it immediately, particularly when she saw the way Denise's expression hardened, like she had been struck.   
  


"I'm sorry," she managed. "I didn't… I'm sorry, Denise."   
  


Posture stiffening, Denise had already closed down. "I'll make a call," she said hoarsely, turning on her heel. "I'll let you know what I find. And this better be the last favor I do for you for a while, Jill."   
  


Turning on her heel, Denise moved quickly out of her office, closing the door behind her, leaving a wincing Jill behind.   
  


\--   
  


"Were you nice?" Claire had asked her, in a parental tone with a warning glare attached.   
  


"Yes, Mom," Lindsay groused, but couldn't quite avoid the small smile at the tail end of the statement. "I think we're good. Though I may have made it on Jill's shit list for today."   
  


"Well, Jill's got a lot on her mind," Claire responded, pulling on a pair of plastic gloves. "And it probably doesn't help that you're finding something that looks a lot like love while she's still dealing with losing what she had with Luke."   
  


Claire always did work well with honesty. "Yeah." She looked down at the body, one of the other Inspector's homicides, a disturbingly young woman. "She had coffee with Cindy today."   
  


"See? At least she's trying."   
  


Something about the incident still nagged Lindsay, but determined not to be a thundering narcissist; she just pressed her lips together and agreed.   
  


"So what do you mean you're good?" Claire's attention was on making her incision, but her eyes floated up briefly. "How good are you and Cindy?"   
  


"Not that good," Lindsay said stiffly, feeling suddenly scrutinized as Claire smirked and went back to her cutting. "But she's crazy about me."   
  


Claire's scalpel paused, then continued. "Yes, she is."   
  


Lindsay sucked in her breath and pushed it out again, thinking suddenly of where she had been last night, and where she had woken up this morning.   
  


Had she gone with her instincts, she would have been waking up in Cindy's bed.   
  


It was a startling clear picture.   
  


"You know," she heard, dimly realizing Claire was actually still speaking. "I know you have a million reasons to wait on this. But this girl here? I bet she waited too." Lindsay's smile stalled, and a cold shiver went through her at what Claire was implying. "She's gonna be at the Pride Parade all day," the older woman continued. "In case you feel like taking some time off, and finding yourself a bit of sunshine the help you weather out the storm."   
  


The young girl on the slab could have easily been any woman in any crime scene she had ever come across.   
  


For a moment, she was every one of Lindsay's victims, and for a single, terrifying moment - she was Lindsay herself.   
  


The fear that got her heart pounding surprised her, and with a muted smile, Lindsay held back her tears.   
  


A group of young men, decked out in clothes marked with a series of rainbows, ran across the intersection. A car waiting at the red light blared a horn amiably, and in response one of the boys stopped and with both arms reaching toward the sky, screamed.   
  


A barrage of horns were his response.   
  


Laughing, one of the others grabbed hold of his arm and dragged him out of the way.   
  


It was a view that came once a year and Lindsay Boxer found herself smiling in reaction.   
  


"You're scaring me," Warren Jacobi said frankly, pulling Lindsay out of her thoughts, handing her a cup of coffee on his way to the other side of the car.   
  


"Oh really?" she asked, opening the door to the passenger side and sliding in.   
  


"You're in your head." Taking his time with his seat belt, her partner raised the steaming cup to his mouth. "You being in your head is dangerous."   
  


He was suspicious; then again Jacobi had every right to be. As her partner, he had always been brutally honest and completely bewildered at her lack of emotional depth. Most of the time, he kept his true opinions to himself, citing to her that Lindsay Boxer was a big girl and whatever messes she got herself into was her business.   
  


The recent news of the Kiss Me Not killer had obliterated that line to some degree, and she found Jacobi was louder and more nosy than she remembered him being.   
  


"It's not as dangerous as you think." It was her way of telling him that for once, it wasn't Kiss-Me-Not she was holding back about. "Just thinking about things, that’s all."   
  


"Oh really? What kind of things?" Handing her his cup, he started the ignition, warming up the car as the traffic crept past, an unfortunate consequence of the nearby streets closing down for the Pride Parade.   
  


"Girlie things," she said, hoping to head him off. Such obvious allusions to her femininity usually worked like a charm with both Jacobi and Tom, who would immediately infer talk of periods and head in the opposite direction.   
  


No such luck today. "Girlie things," he repeated. "I know for a fact, you're not going to get insane for about another two weeks. Pull the other one."   
  


Disgusted, Lindsay squirmed. "Okay, we officially know way too much about each other."   
  


"I've been married a million times. I know women. Not enough apparently to keep any of them, but you seem to be the exception."   
  


It was a sadly affirming truth.   
  


"Lindsay," he said, voice low, warning baritone. "What's up?"   
  


Licking her lips, she glanced down at the disappearing group of boys, heading toward a Pride parade.   
  


\--   
  


Shoulders tight with tension, Jill struggled to massage her own nape as she washed her hands in the courthouse bathroom.   
  


There were lines of stress around her eyes, and what had started out as a sucky day had at least had one reprieve. Thanks to the efforts of her friends, she had an air tight case and a mountain of evidence. The defense was scrambling.   
  


The door to the bathroom opened, and of course, it would be Denise Kwon stepping into the room. Had Jill not been waiting to hear from her all day, she would have very immaturely ducked into a stall.   
  


"Martinez wants to settle," her boss announced, coming to stand beside her, crossing her arms and inspecting her through the mirror. "He's offering a life sentence with possibility for parole in ten years."   
  


"Impossible," Jill said immediately. "We've got his guy. We can go for the death penalty if we want it and the jury will hand it to us, no questions asked. Life without parole."   
  


The smallest hint of a smile inched onto Denise's face. "I figured as much. Good job."   
  


It was surprisingly nice, considering how they had left things this morning. Jill wasn't sure how to react. "Thanks."   
  


"I left a message with a contact I have over in Quantico," Denise continued. "He said he'll look into it and get back to me."   
  


Sucking it up, Jill knew better than to offer the other woman a smile. "Thank you," she said, as sincerely as she could.   
  


Denise only stared back. "You think you know me so well. You don't know me half as well as you think you do."   
  


Jill took that in, watching the clouded face carefully. "Why don't you give me a chance to find out who you really are?"   
  


"And what? You'll do the same for me?"   
  


"You know who I am," Jill responded flatly. "I'm a damn good lawyer with a fucked up personal life who is lucky enough to have some really great friends. Whether you like that or not isn't my problem, but if it helps us work better together, I'm willing to try and work past whatever grudge you've got on me."   
  


"Why? Because you're such a good person?"   
  


"Because you're my boss, Denise," she snapped, losing her patience. "Because I know that somewhere down there is an actual decent person who at the very least, likes to play by the rules. There are very few people who I trust right now but I would consider it monumentally easier if I could trust you."   
  


Denise's dark eyes blazed into her, sizing her up.   
  


"Fair enough," the other woman said finally, stepping away from the sink. "Meet me for drinks tonight. We'll work on the trust issue." As she headed for the door, she tossed over her shoulder, "I'll let you know when I hear back from Quantico."   
  


If Jill hadn't known better, she would have sworn she had just been swindled into a date.   
  


\--   
  


"I think Thaddeus has a crush on you."   
  


Impossibly gorgeous Brooke McQueen looked almost shy as she said that, and it was a charming expression on the stranger's face.   
  


The young man in question was currently across the bar, fiddling with a guitar that had belonged to his now deceased father, strumming a tune and casting surreptitious glances in Cindy's direction.   
  


It was sweet.   
  


"Yeah, well…" Cindy shrugged humbly. "I think it's his grief talking. The poor kid lost his dad just as he was getting to know him."   
  


"At least he has Bruce. He seems like a very gentle man."   
  


"He's a great man," Cindy returned, with a smile. It was a bittersweet ending for one of San Francisco's most revered drag queens, but Cindy felt reasonably sure that Dakota would find comfort in the fact that her life long partner had taken in her aspiring artist son, as his own. "I think we need more men like him."   
  


Brooke nodded, and it was then that Cindy realized she was actually alone. "Where's Sam?"   
  


"Oh… around here, somewhere." Brooke motioned with her fingers around the crowded bar. "She got it in her head to focus on the children of the gay community and is now interviewing every son, daughter and gay parent she can find. She has an angle worked out for her story but now I'm afraid she's going to throw it out completely in favor of this new one."   
  


"She's… energetic."   
  


A soft laugh was her response. "Yeah," Brooke admitted. "That's one word for it. Sam told me about your friend."   
  


Expression sobering, Cindy glanced up.   
  


With a sincere frown, Brooke shrugged. "I hope you find him."   
  


"Thanks," she managed. "Me too." Above the noise, she felt the curious familiar buzzing of her blackberry. Immediately she reached for it, hoping to God it would be Jill. "I'm sorry. I have to get this."   
  


"No, it's fine." Brooke set her drink down at the bar and slid off the stool. "I need to find Sam anyway."   
  


The caller ID read "Lindsay Boxer". Cindy's heart gave the requisite thump. "Hey."   
  


"Hey," said the gravely voice, and there was so much noise behind her, she could barely make her out. "Claire said you were working the Pride Parade."   
  


"One of the perks of an office outing at a paper," she mused, smiling despite her clouded thoughts. "Where are you? I can barely hear you."   
  


"Look up."   
  


Lowering her phone, Inspector Boxer stood in the midst of the crowd, wearing a smile and her leather jacket, and looking so damned gorgeous Cindy's knees nearly gave out.   
  


\--   
  


The day was winding down and the parties were just getting started. People were well past drunk, and Brooke McQueen would have had more patience for it if she could just find Sam.   
  


"The hot brunette reporter girl?" said the lesbian Brooke had last seen her speaking to. "I think she went outside. Saw her with a guy in a tie."   
  


Brooke frowned, and thanked her politely as she could, moving through the crowded bar to the street, still littered with partying people.   
  


There was no Sam McPherson.   


\--   



	8. Chapter 8

**EIGHT.**  
  
"Is stalking 101 something they teach at Quantico or are you just super well rounded?"   
  


Agent John Ashe had lost whatever cool he had been masquerading behind, and the resulting grimace that creased over his handsome face would have caused more than a sudden thrill of validation for Sam McPherson, if it wasn't for the fact that Brooke was currently at the bar, and liable to look over any minute.   
  


"It's not you I'm after," the special agent answered quietly, leaning close and speaking into her ear, releasing an unconscious shudder in the furious reporter. "You're not a priority, McPherson."   
  


"And yet you just keep following me everywhere I go."   
  


"I need to catch this guy."   
  


The desperation in his voice made him utterly human. "Then you've got the wrong girl," she answered pointedly, and snuck another glance at Brooke. Sam had always been more than aware of Brooke's faults. Brooke's tendency to get pissy when the bossy former daddy's girl didn't have things to go her way wasn't new to Sam McPherson. Pitting that quality with Sam's insatiable need for conflict was like putting a spark to a powder keg, and if it was one thing Sam wanted, it was to avoid a fight. If Brooke saw Ashe with her, if Brooke figured out what Sam was really trying to avoid, she would discover the half-truths that Sam had spouted to her earlier in the morning, and then that was exactly what they would have. A huge fight that would go late into the night, or worse, the sudden retreat of Brooke, who had a tendency to fly home when she believed Sam no longer saw reason.   
  


She wasn't ready to let go of Brooke, not so soon.   
  


It prompted her to move.   
  


Grabbing hold of his elbow, she weaved through the crowd, jerking him around a couple making out into the corner, into the darkening outdoors. "What the hell do you want from me?" she snapped, two steps from the door.   
  


He tugged at his tie, and the sweat from the hotter part of the day had left his hair shinier than normal, pulled up in tufts. "Walk with me."   
  


"Uh, no," she answered flatly. "Right here's just fine."   
  


He stared at her. "Just what kind of person do you think I am?"   
  


"I don't care," she snapped. "Okay? Right now, all I care about is you leaving and letting me do my job."   
  


"Pretty girlfriend you've got." The way he said it just completely chilled her. He smiled, the expression not reaching his eyes. "Give her my regards. Or I can do that for you. Brooke McQueen, right?"   
  


He didn't wait for her. The Agent just tossed her a curt nod and then walked away from her, like she asked.   
  


Sam McPherson was entirely capable of committing acts of unspeakable stupidity; particularly when righteously indignant.   
  


It had gotten her into trouble numerous amount of times.   
  


The real problem had always been she failed to see how stupid she was being until that split second after she had committed the said act.   
  


As it was, she already around the corner and in the dark alley when she realized she was suddenly completely alone and there was no agent to be found.   
  


A spike of panic overtook her.   
  


"Holy shit," she breathed.   
  


The world exploded in a flash of excruciating pain that knifed into her side. A gloved hand that slammed into her face from behind her muffled her scream.   
  


\--   
  


"Was I imagining things or did I hear Denise telling Gomez that she's having drinks with you later tonight?"   
  


A piece of hotdog lodged unexpectedly in Jill's throat, and she worked hard to clear it, wincing when the miscalculated bite shoveled itself down her esophagus.   
  


Standing beside her, Claire wore an expression that was simultaneously concerned and befuddled.   
  


Jill sighed in resignation. "You weren't hearing things," she admitted, and once again checked her cell phone. No texts. No emails.   
  


"Well…" Claire looked entirely too amused. "Has hell frozen over?"   
  


"Practically," Jill breathed, and then continued hastily, "its part of my new thing."   
  


"New thing?" Claire repeated, squinting a little as she pulled off her sunglasses, walking with her away from the hot dog vendor to the less smelly atmosphere offered by the fountain in the middle of the courtyard.   
  


"My whole 'grow up and actually deal with her' thing," Jill muttered morosely. "Because, as much as I hate to admit it, she does have a point. A lot of the whole losing Luke thing could have been avoided if I hadn't actually banged Hanson on my desk."   
  


Claire tossed her a sympathetic glance, but didn't argue the fact. It was the truth. They all knew it. In this small circle, Jill had never felt judged for it. Lindsay and Claire, in their own tragic ways, understood loss, and Cindy just simply didn't have it in her.   
  


She was a fuck-up, but her friends never made her feel like it.   
  


Jill knew, in that sense at least, she was luckier than most.   
  


"It still wasn't her place to reveal it," Claire added, "And I think you've punished yourself enough for that."   
  


The hot dog looked suddenly unappetizing, and Jill grimaced, folding the rest of the late lunch into her napkin and tossing it in a nearby trashcan. "Honestly, Luke hasn't been big on my mind lately."   
  


It was a little surprising, and a little heartbreaking, to realize how true that was.   
  


"Well, there have been other distractions."   
  


The Kiss-Me-Not killer and his direct threat to Lindsay was more than a distraction in Jill's opinion, but she knew Claire understood.   
  


"More than you think," she mumbled and once again checked her phone.   
  


A questioning glance was thrown in her direction. "Waiting for something?"   
  


"Call from Denise," she said, struggling not to elaborate. "Work related."   
  


Claire seemed to accept that easily enough. She, apparently, had other things on her mind. "Lindsay told me you had coffee with Cindy this morning. Good for you."   
  


A sudden wave of irritation hit her a little harder than she expected. "Yes. You know, you might as well pat me on the head and call me 'sport' while you're at it."   
  


"Don't be petulant," Claire chided softly, and reached over to give her a gentle squeeze. "You know what I mean."   
  


Jill wished she didn't. "Well, don't go granting me grounds for sainthood or anything." She glanced at her phone again and grimaced. "Cindy and I meeting this morning wasn't about playing the weird and twisted game of 'Pass the Boxer'. She had information she needed me to confirm."   
  


"Information?" Claire's voice immediately grew troubled, dark eyes deepening in color when she immediately inferred the worst. "Kiss-Me-Not information?"   
  


Silently apologizing to their missing friend for leaving her out of this, Jill's shoulders straightened and she turned. "Yes."   
  


\--   
  


Lindsay Boxer had never been one for sweeping romantic gestures. Tom had always been better about that sort of thing. He was the one who remembered the exact date of the anniversary, would get annoyed when she would answer the 'how long has it been' question with numbers ending in '-ish'. Flowers were nice on rare occasions, but monumentally better was always a beer, because she didn't know how to arrange bouquets in vases anyhow, and would almost always forget to take them out until they were rotting and stunk up the house.   
  


In fact, doing this: making a concentrated effort to take some time out from her job that meant everything, to stand in a crowded bar, less than two feet away from a girl who appeared to be stunned speechless, was about as romantic as Lindsay got.   
  


She fervently hoped that Cindy knew her well enough to understand the significance of what she was doing. She wasn't that great at verbalizing things anyhow.   
  


"You're very quiet," she said finally, a half-nervous chuckle overwhelming her as she managed a delicate smile, unsure what to think when Cindy Thomas continued to stare at her like a gaping fish. "It's kind of freaking me out."   
  


The observation seemed to jolt Cindy out of whatever haze she was in, and Lindsay's quivering insides got a slight reprieve when the girl flushed, color painting her cheeks as the phone came down. "Are you complaining?" Cindy asked, a little too casually.   
  


Based on the circumstances, considering Lindsay didn't even know what she wanted to accomplish by coming here, she decided there was no right way to answer that.   
  


"What are you doing here?" Rather than responding to Cindy's query, Lindsay made another step forward, reaching the stool vacated by the blonde she had seen Cindy speaking to earlier.   
  


Turning her torso, Lindsay couldn't shake the intense feeling of vulnerable stupidity. She didn't do things like this. Being here felt like she might as well have put together a posterboard with 'I Heart Cindy' on it and displayed it in the precinct. And really, nothing had changed.   
  


Except she was here now, and her friend, intoxicating blush still tinting her cheeks, was right here with her.   
  


Lindsay felt her resistance slip again. "I wanted to see you," she began haltingly, as honestly as she could. The smile on her face was broader than she liked, and she feared it made her look like a dimpled jester. "I knew where you were going to be, so I told Jacobi I needed a couple hours off and … then I looked."   
  


"You tracked me down in a gay bar because you wanted to see me."   
  


The annotation was slightly disbelieving, half teasing. In its simplicity, the truth was utterly damning.   
  


The beer currently nestled in Cindy's fingers was suddenly tempting beyond belief.   
  


"Yeah," she managed finally, steeling herself to raise her chin and finally meet Cindy's inquisitive gaze head on. "That about covers it."   
  


The feelings for Cindy Thomas that had overwhelmed her the day she had laid aside her inhibitions and drunkenly kissed her were no less frightening sober. In this environment, in a bar crowded with gay pride paraphernalia and images of women kissing women and the complete sense of freedom that the parade and the festivities around it created, there existed a certain realm of fantasy, an invitation to forget about the misfortunes that buried her under their weight.   
  


The urge to be impulsive and reckless with her emotions in such a way she had never been before was heavy on her mind, like a disregarding demon on her shoulder, and now more than ever, Lindsay saw the temptation of burying herself into Cindy Thomas and forgetting everything else.   
  


Cindy's eyes were darker than she had ever seen them, contemplating Lindsay and their situation with an agitated hunger than made her itchy for something else, some measure of contact to assure herself that this was actually real, and that it was okay.   
  


"You know," Cindy began finally, with a hoarse quality in her tone, breathless. "This isn't helping the whole 'figure this out later' deal we put on the table last night. In fact, as far as resolutions go, your discipline sucks."   
  


She was right. Of course. Lindsay was very quickly learning that the little reporter was right about a lot of things, which was semi-miraculous and tremendously annoying, when she thought about it.   
  


"What we have shouldn't be based on him," she said flatly. Green eyes locked with hers intensely.   
  


Something flashed in those orbs, something Lindsay couldn't quite read, before her friend seemed to give in completely, peeling the label off her condensing bottle of beer and offering her a timid, resigned smile. "So you're saying you want to renegotiate?"   
  


Lindsay glanced about the establishment, the men and woman with completely different lives, who flitted around them with individual cares and fears and worries and regrets.   
  


Her gaze returned to Cindy. "Actually, I'm saying I want to kiss you."   
  


A dark, tense pause and suddenly the woman she so very desperately wanted to kiss shuddered, like she had been doused with water. "Lindsay, you can't say things like that and not expect me to…"   
  


"What?" Again, that look of conflict passed through Cindy's features, and it nagged her, tugged on her insecurities, because it was one thing to hear that Cindy was crazy about her - another to see Cindy's own indecision manifest itself so easily.   
  


"You said you couldn't do this."   
  


"You said we were good."   
  


"God-DAMMIT." The explosive expletive that burst from Cindy's mouth was startling, and Lindsay frowned, a sinking feeling of sudden doubt overtaking her. Across from her, Cindy had begun to twitch, fidgeting with her beer bottle and staring at the floor.   
  


"Cindy."   
  


"There are things we have to talk about."   
  


Unsure, Lindsay's brow stayed furrowed. "Okay."   
  


A small hand wrapped itself behind her neck, and then Cindy, who had somehow vaulted the foot it took to reach the taller woman, was kissing her. Wetly. Deeply. There was no slow, chaste pecks, no wondering press of lips against closed lips. Cindy's head tilted and her breath fluttered raggedly over her mouth and then there was simply the taste of her, pushing deeply inside of her with a mind numbing focus Lindsay had no other choice but to simply shut her eyes, press palms against a slender waist, and push back.   
  


When Cindy broke off the kiss, inches from her, panting hard, Lindsay kept her eyes closed, long fingers wrapping tightly around Cindy's biceps, keeping her close.   
  


"We're doing it again," she heard, a tight, anguished whisper.   
  


The sudden giddiness was extremely difficult to ignore. "What are we doing?" she asked, and Cindy smiled with her, until she surged forward and met her halfway, lips clinging to hers.   
  


"Cindy."   
  


The world opened up as quickly as it had fallen away, and Lindsay's heart pounded in her chest as she tried to recover, dizzily discovered the blonde was once again at the bar, interrupting their intimate embrace to engage Cindy.   
  


"Brooke," Cindy breathed, fingers sliding from Lindsay's cheek.   
  


"I'm… I'm sorry," the girl named Brooke said, glancing between them both with an expression that, now that Lindsay's flustered body had begun to cool, seemed unsure and frightened.   
  


"What is it?" she asked.   
  


"This is Lindsay," Cindy said immediately. "She's a police Inspector."   
  


"Oh," Brooke breathed, and shifted on her feet, licking her lips impulsively before nodding briefly and managing, "I can't find Sam."   
  


\--   
  


"I have your answer from Quantico," Denise Kwon announced, barging into her office. Her superior apparently now felt above knocking, as she faltered six steps in to notice Claire standing beside Jill.   
  


"What is it?" Jill asked, too desperate for the answer to mind the entitled interruption.   
  


Posture stiffening, Denise shot a quick glance at the medical examiner.   
  


Claire's mouth twitched, obviously a little offended at the inference that she couldn't be trusted.   
  


Jill didn't care to wade through semantics. "It's okay. Claire knows."   
  


At this, Denise arched a displeased brow. "You're immensely liberal with your information."   
  


"Denise," Jill began, head starting to throb.   
  


"The reporter's contact was a bust." Denise shrugged, getting to the point. "Ashe may not originally have been an investigator on the Kiss-Me-Not case, but he was reassigned."   
  


It was exactly what she wasn't expecting to hear.   
  


"That's impossible," Claire breathed, and Denise just shot her another look.   
  


"Since when?" Jill asked, mind suddenly swimming, body suddenly running hot and cold at the same time.   
  


"The orders came down this morning," Denise continued. "Morris said it could have just been a delay in the paperwork."   
  


"What, like it was just caught up in jurisdiction?" It sounded too ridiculous to believe.   
  


"Office inefficiency isn't exclusive to our own precinct." Denise reached up, rubbing the name of her neck with long fingers, shifting on her heels. "Morris didn't seem too concerned about it. For all we know, the guy who was originally in charge of the Kiss-Me-Not case didn't want it taken away from him. That's what held it up."   
  


"And what would make Ashe so competent?" Jill asked, casting a frowning Claire a long glance.   
  


"Someone obviously thought that he was up to the task," Denise shrugged, too flippant, earning a glare from Jill. At the hostile look, the other woman went quiet, studying the expression. "You didn't actually think this could be the guy?"   
  


Feeling foolish, Jill sighed, once again glancing at Claire and then at the floor.   
  


"At least it would have meant a lead," she said, both to Claire and to Denise. "This guy is a phantom. And something about that guy doesn't add up."   
  


"Maybe Cindy's reporter friend got it wrong," Claire suggested, trying, as always, to be logical and reasonable.   
  


"It doesn’t change what he did," Jill snapped at her. "He still went to her in her hotel room, he still gave her the case files…He creeped her out."   
  


"Jill, we're lawyers," Denise interrupted, expression tightening. "You and I deal in something a little more concrete than just 'the guy gives me the creeps'."   
  


"There's nothing wrong with instinct," Claire argued softly. "And Jill's got good ones."   
  


"I'm not arguing that," Denise answered, softer, addressing Claire for the first time. "But it doesn’t change that as far as facts go, you've got nothing but gut."   
  


"So we find another angle," Jill breathed, too invested to let this go. "We let Lindsay know and Cindy's investigating him now, we'll find something."   
  


"Jill, you have a job to do," Denise reminded her, and it caused such a wave of irritation that she literally shuddered with annoyance.   
  


"And don't I always do it?" she asked, harder than she meant.   
  


"Jill," Claire began, sotto, and it forced her to close her eyes, take a breath. Dragging her eyes from the warning expression on Claire's face to the hardening features on Denise, she flexed her palm and tried again.   
  


"This guy… he may be our only lead."   
  


Her boss was always an enigma. What was going on behind the dark eyes was puzzling, but when her features softened and her posture loosened, she surprised her.   
  


"I understand that you're afraid for the Inspector," Denise managed, haltingly, awkward in her attempts at sympathy. "But has it occurred to you," she continued sincerely, "That perhaps you're so afraid for your… friend, so willing to believe he's a bad guy, because you might not have anything else?"   
  


"You think we're projecting."   
  


"I think you're caring," Denise corrected, softer than Jill had ever heard before. "Just a little too much. Don't get me wrong. I think what you and your friends do is… interesting. But…"   
  


"But we're reaching," Claire mumbled. Denise eyed her warily, and then finally nodded.   
  


"I'm sorry that wasn't what you were looking for," she answered.   
  


It was almost too civil.   
  


"What?" Denise asked, turning on her heel and moving for the door. "I told you I'd try."   
  


Lips pressing in together, Jill tried to keep her calculating mind from moving too fast, doing her best to take the information and not confuse it in the midst of her sudden devastation at losing a lead that could have possibly saved her friend's life.   
  


"Wow." Beside her, the Medical Examiner appeared thunderstruck. "She really is trying."   
  


Jill didn't have time to contemplate Denise's about-face. Shoulders slumping, she turned her suddenly exhausted body toward her desk.   
  


"What are you doing?"   
  


Plucking her cellphone from her desk, Jill tossed Claire a tired glance. "Calling Cindy. Telling her we have a whole load of nothing."   
  


\--   
  


Cindy Thomas was trying very hard to fight her way out of a lust-induced fog. Her chest was heaving, her insides were quivering, and the look on Brooke's face as she announced the fact that her partner was missing felt like a bucket of ice cold water had been dumped over her head.   
  


"Maybe she's outside?" she suggested, wiping her mouth and immediately launching onto her tip-toes, using Lindsay's shoulder for balance as she tried to crane her and look through the crowded bar.   
  


"She's not," Brooke breathed, arms wrapping around herself as she also looked back, obviously hoping she was wrong. "I'm not saying it's not like Sam to get completely wrapped up in what she's doing, but she wouldn't just leave. And …" Brooke wrapped her arms around herself, glancing hesitantly between the two of them before she continued, "I asked this girl she was talking to if she had seen her? She said she went outside with a guy in a tie."   
  


"A guy in a tie?" Lindsay repeated, but the blood had already started to pound in Cindy's ears, heart dropping inside of her in sudden fearful realization.   
  


"He was talking to her earlier today," Brooke continued, "At the pride parade. Sam lied about it but she sucks at lying to me. It's the FBI guy, right? The one that came to see her last night?"   
  


Lindsay's grip on her arm tightened painfully, an instinctive reaction. Dark brown eyes shot to her, and Cindy found herself suddenly frozen, throat gone dry.   
  


"An FBI guy?" Lindsay repeated, and the Inspector was always so quick. She could read Cindy so quickly, and her voice hardened. "My FBI guy?"   
  


"I was going to tell you," Cindy managed, helpless in how to even begin to explain. "Lindsay, we were just waiting - we need to find Sam."   
  


Lindsay stared at her, searching her face for any clue as to what she was missing. Suddenly the Inspector let her go, nearly shoving her away in her anger as she nodded to Brooke and left Cindy behind. "Show me."   
  


So involved in trying to go after them, Cindy couldn’t connect the vibrations drumming against her side and the fact that the phone was ringing until she was fighting her way through the dancefloor, losing the worried Brooke and pissed off Boxer when she finally dug into her purse and saw it was from Jill.   
  


Fumbling, she ducked under a flailing arm and held it tightly to her ear, moving as quickly as she could toward the exit. "Tell me something good," she pleaded, as she answered, "Because I think we have bigger problems now than Lindsay never speaking to me again."   
  


\--   
  


Lindsay burst out into the now crowded streets of the bar, not even pausing as she threaded through the crowds, sharp eyes scanning for dark corners, suspicious persons, anything that could alert her to a kidnapping.   
  


"Call her," she snapped, back at the woman who she immediately inferred to be the girlfriend.   
  


"I did," the blonde retorted, but was already digging into her pocket.   
  


"Do it again. And again. Until something cuts you off." Lindsay didn't wait for her, swiveling on the pavement.   
  


The dark had settled; the families had abandoned the Pride Parade and now there were just litters of party-goers, traveling in packs or alone. The street was still closed - no cars could have been allowed in or out.   
  


To her left was the brightly lit spill over from the festivities, inviting a crowd: a stage, a group of performing drag queens, music.   
  


Too many people.   
  


She grabbed hold of a casual smoker, flashing a badge. "Did you see a guy in a tie?"   
  


He shook his head, bewildered, and Lindsay kept walking, moving fast in the opposite direction, hearing Brooke falling into step behind her.   
  


"Wait." A strong grip grabbed onto her elbow. "Do you hear that?"   
  


Underneath the noise, she did hear it. Faint. Soft.   
  


A cell phone.   
  


Her pace increased, turning the corner to the alley ten feet away, skidding on the uneven concrete and flipping the lapel of her leather jacket up to grab hold of her gun.   
  


She never hesitated.   
  


Yanking the weapon out of the holster, she raised it, voice hard and angry. "Hands up. Get away from her."   
  


Agent John Ashe cradled the Sam McPherson on the floor, expressionless. There was a patch of black blood pooling on her shirt, leaking onto his suit.   
  


"It wasn't me."   
  


"Hands UP, Ashe!" She cocked the trigger.   
  


"Oh, God - Sam-"   
  


The blonde lurched forward, and was immediately hauled back by a suddenly appearing red-head. Cindy grabbed hold of her, struggling with the taller girl.   
  


"Wait," she heard, and Brooke screamed at her.   
  


He looked down at the reporter in his arms, then up again to Lindsay.   
  


"She needs a doctor," he said hoarsely. "I called 911."   
  


"Get the fuck off her, Ashe."   
  


The look he gave her chilled her. Without a word, he let her go, carefully settling her bleeding body on the ground and rising carefully off his knees, blood drenched hands rising in the air, eyes never leaving hers.   
  


"Move," she said, inching forward, entire body tight with tension, finger resting lightly on the trigger. One step away from her. Two.   
  


Sirens blared in the distance, but Lindsay could barely hear them.   
  


She looked into the eyes of a beautiful stranger.   
  


Her finger trembled, itching to pull.   
  


"Lindsay…" She didn't dare look, but the voice of Cindy shook her.   
  


But her sights were set on Ashe. She didn't see anyone else.   


\--   



	9. Chapter 9

**NINE.**  
  
"She's lucky," the doctor said, standing over the immobile form of Sam McPherson, scribbling dispassionately over his clipboard and offering the woman beside her a sideways glance. "It could have been much worse."   
  


Because of her history with her eating disorder and her coma, Brooke knew way too much about medicine. She also had a healthy respect for doctors, and understood that what they did was extremely important. Cutting themselves off was sometimes the only real way to cope.   
  


Logically, the doctor was simply being honest.   
  


Brooke didn't care.   
  


A waves of disgust shivered its way up her spine, and in an effort not to grab Sam's IV bag and smack him over the head with it, she reached for her girlfriend's still hand and squeezed, concentrating instead on the smooth alabaster skin, fluttering eyelids, plump lips.   
  


"Thank you," she managed roughly, trying hard to rise above her hammering heart. She wasn't crying, not anymore. Instead, it was almost as if she had gone numb. Shock, she decided, because her body couldn't take much more and her emotions dealt with it accordingly.   
  


The Anorexic's Survival Guide to Heartbreak: Brooke could have written a book.   
  


When she was younger, love and hate had become a blurry mess, and that was thanks to the woman whose hand she was holding, back then a girl. She remembered not understanding why Sam McPherson, stupidly ego-tistic, prettier-than-she-wanted-to-admit, hypocritical Sam McPherson hated her so much. Half of the time she wanted desperately to prove Sam wrong, wanted to show Sam that she wasn't the monster Sam thought she was. The other half she wanted to destroy her, use every trick in the book to push that nosy nemesis off her entitled reporter's ledge. Back then, Nicole had been like a well accessorized demon on her shoulder, pushing her to further acts of atrociousness, and Brooke, unsure if she was loved, desperate to be accepted the only way she knew how, allowed it.   
  


God, even back then, when she was so sure she hated Sam… she had wanted her. She remembered when Sam would show even the smallest amount of kindness; a smile here, an honest conversation there… it meant the world to her. She was always the first to give in, always the first to come after Sam and offer some sort of truce, do what she could to make Sam see her, truly see her, the way she wanted to see Sam.   
  


"You're not supposed to meet the love of your life at sixteen," she remembered telling someone once, in an emphatic plea for them to understand why Sam and her relationship had always been so tumultuous. "You're not supposed to be step sisters and you're sure as hell not supposed to start off hating each other."   
  


Brooke mutely stared at the girl on the bed, looking so very young despite the years that had passed together.   
  


Reaching up, she carefully skimmed the top of Sam's forehead, lifting off a brunette bang that had to be tickling Sam's nose and smoothing it over to the side.   
  


Sam hated hospitals. She avoided them whenever she could. Sam had once said she had never had a good experience in one, mostly due to Brooke's many stays in these types of facilities, and lately, Brooke was sure, because of her stint overseas. A stain of red inked lightly on the bandage that had been wrapped tightly around her ribs, and though she knew it was true, Brooke didn't want to hear about how lucky Sam was.   
  


Later, she was going to be furious. She was going to lose her temper and launch into a tirade because this was exactly what she had been afraid of, when Sam got into a fight that wasn't hers. She was going to be fully aware that she had no leg to stand on because they had been in opposite places before, and it had formed who they were; a stupid coma and the trauma that surrounded it.   
  


Right now, Brooke's fingers lingered on Sam's forehead, and then skimmed along her cheeks, relearning angles and curves that she already memorized.   
  


A uniformed officer stood by the door. She saw the flash of blue each and every time a doctor or nurse went in or out.   
  


Rolling her shoulders, she heard a crack of bones and arched her neck, resettling herself, before she reached for her phone.   
  


\--   
  


Lindsay was furious. It was evident even to those who didn't know her well.   
  


Jill Bernhardt did, in fact, know Lindsay well. She studied the tight expression, the sharp, calculating glare that came from dark brown eyes. The lean, powerful body didn't move. Lindsay merely stood, staring through the glass, at Agent John Ashe.   
  


The FBI agent gave nothing away. He sat in the uncomfortable metal chair and looked straight ahead, where he knew he was being watched, betraying no expression.   
  


"How long?"   
  


Lindsay's question was low, but Jill heard it, head jerking from the FBI Agent Lindsay arrested to her friend, who was now looking at her, hands on her hips, brows narrowed together.   
  


"Lindsay," she began, as quietly as she could.   
  


"You had information about the investigation and you kept it from me?"   
  


"We were waiting to confirm it." Her voice was purposefully careful, easy. In moments like this, Lindsay was unreachable, and unfortunately, not even Tom knew how to snap his fingers, make her lose her focus long enouch to see reason.   
  


Lindsay's shoulders bunched together, her head jerked erratically. "That wasn't your job, it wasn't Cindy's job. It was my job."   
  


"If you had known what was happening, you would have gone to see him-"   
  


"And maybe there wouldn't be a reporter with a knife wound in her gut," Lindsay burst, flashing brown eyes at her, nearly knocking over a chair in furious disgust.   
  


Resisting the urge to shrink back, Jill's posture purposefully stiffened. "We don't know that Ashe did it."   
  


"Because he's been the model of honesty?"   
  


"No because there's no evidence," she replied, hotter than she wanted. "You looked, Lindsay. In the alley, in his car. There's no knife. You had uni-s ransacking the entire block. No one found anything. For all we know, his story is true."   
  


"What, that he was having a pleasant argument with Sam McPherson until he got bumped in the head and woke up just in time to find Sam McPherson bleeding all over him?" Lindsay nearly spit at her. "That's really likely, Jill."   
  


She attempted to keep a level head. Lindsay was angry, and she as angry at her. Jill could understand why. But Lindsay's tone…   
  


"If you want me to do my job, then we need to get facts and evidence." Her palm swiped down her hips, taking a step forward to make a point to her best friend, currently just another cop who forgot how the system work. "Not assumptions."   
  


Lindsay's expression burned into her. "Because that's all I do, right? Make assumptions? That's why you and Cindy kept it from me, didn't you?"   
  


Cindy. It wasn't enough that Jill had done it, but she and Cindy had willingly conspired to keep something from Lindsay Boxer. Cindy, of course, being the reason Lindsay was even there, at that gay bar.   
  


They hadn't spoken about it, but the over reactive anger, the look in Lindsay's eyes  it wasn't just about Ashe.   
  


More than anything, Lindsay hated to be made into a fool.   
  


Good God. Lindsay was just a foot away from her, and still… unreachable. Jill shook her head slightly, "No." Her voice shook slightly. "Lindsay…"   
  


Behind them, a click and a masculine cough revealed Lindsay's ex-husband, easing into the room.   
  


The attention was no longer on her. Lindsay pushed forward, moving around her fast.   
  


"I want to talk to him."   
  


Tom already had his hands up, palms spread wide, as if pleading for mercy. "I got a call from Quantico. We're going to have to let him go."   
  


The tension that had been building inside of Jill wound tighter. She had been afraid of this.   
  


"What?" An outraged shriek relayed Lindsay's reaction to the news.   
  


"We don't have enough to hold him!" Tom snapped, already jumping into a defensive move, anticipating Boxer's anger. "We've got no knife. We've got nothing that ties him to the victim-"   
  


"Except the fact that I found her bleeding in his arms."   
  


"He says he was trying to help her."   
  


"The man was stalking her!"   
  


"Look, no one says he hasn't acted unethically," he growled. "But what he does on his own time isn't our place. We've got nothing that says he slashed her. No knife, no evidence  hell, we searched his car, his house  there was no time to get rid of the weapon. He didn't do it."   
  


Chest constricting, Jill chewed on her bottom lip, on edge as she watched Lindsay's sharp features process the information.   
  


Without warning, Lindsay's shoulder dug into Tom's, and she was moving.   
  


"Lindsay!" he barked, and Jill pushed off the wall, already anticipating the burst of the temperamental Inspector.   
  


\--   
  


The door launched open in front of her. She immediately caught it with an open hand, shutting it, clamping it shut.   
  


In front of her, John Ashe merely stared expectantly, hands bound together by her handcuffs.   
  


"I told you." The voice was soft, careful. "I didn't do it."   
  


"What, because they can't find a knife?"   
  


"Lindsay!" The door pounded against her. "God-dammit  Lindsay!'"   
  


"I've been cooperative," he continued quietly. "I saved that girl's life."   
  


"Oh, no," she whispered roughly. "Even if you didn't do it, even if he's still out there, you stuck that knife in her the minute you dragged her into this."   
  


"He's playing with us," Ashe answered, after a beat. "You think he doesn't know the players? He's blinding you, the only way he knows how."   
  


"Because you're such a big threat?"   
  


The smile he gave her wasn't smug, but pained. "If I'm not you might be. You're in here, staring at me, instead of out there, looking for him. I'd say he's winning."   
  


Shoved forward violently, Lindsay was suddenly yanked back, to discover the mottle face of her furious Lieutenant. "Outside," he gasped hoarsely, not gentle at all as he wrapped large hands around her wrists, and jerked her toward the door.   
  


As her ex-husband dragged her away, John Ashe offered her a cordial, quiet nod of his head.   
  


Like he understood.   
  


\--   
  


It was safe to say, Claire had been left out of a few things.   
  


She moved carefully through the crowded hall, to a pained-looking Jill, who leaned against the wall with an exhausted expression on her face, watching Lindsay Boxer get chewed out by Tom Hogan.   
  


"Well," Claire began, determined to feel more ironically amused than irritated, as she took her place beside her friend. "Not taking it well, I assume?"   
  


Beside her, Jill winced. "They're letting Ashe go."   
  


Surprised melded into bittersweet distraction when the phone at her side vibrated against her hip.   
  


"Cindy," she explained to Jill, waving at the caller ID. "She's been keeping me updated hospital-side."   
  


"Tell her she's in the doghouse. We both are," Jill mumbled, and Claire blew out a steadying breath.   
  


"On a scale of one to ten," Claire began when she answered, knowing exactly what Cindy was going to ask. "She's an eleven."   
  


There was a quiet pause. "That bad, huh?"   
  


Jill's eyes rolled up, a silent response to Claire's querying glance.   
  


"Sorry, kiddo. They're letting Ashe go. That's not helping."   
  


"Go HOME!" Hogan suddenly exploded, making the lawyer beside her jump. Tom pointed to the exit, flushed cheeks emphasizing his points. "I don't want to see you here the rest of the day, and you stay the hell away from Ashe. That's an order Lindsay  or I'm suspending you."   
  


"Ouch," Jill breathed, and Claire closed her eyes.   
  


"Sweetie? Stay clear," she said into the phone. "Stay with your reporter friend and her poor girlfriend and let Lindsay cool off. It's not her week."   
  


"It's not her year," her friend retorted softly, sounding resigned and tired. "Look, I'm going to check in on Brooke and Sam, and then I'm going to do some research on my own. If she'll listen, tell her I'm sorry." She disconnected.   
  


"God-DAMMIT." Lindsay's movements were jerky as she moved in their direction; she looked ready to pound the wall. "They're letting him go."   
  


"I know." Jill was careful as she squeezed Lindsay's shoulder, letting go just as quickly. "I'm sorry."   
  


Swiftly, Claire closed the phone.   
  


A flash of anger lifted onto Lindsay's expression, and with a shake of her head, she stared accusingly at Claire. "Did you know too? About Ashe visiting the reporter?"   
  


"Just found out today," Claire answered immediately. "Honest."   
  


"Lindsay, we wanted a confirmation," Jill said again, and it sounded like she had been saying it over and over again. "That's all. That's what Cindy was waiting for. We just ran out of time."   
  


"Maybe not," Claire broke in, before Lindsay could launch on another tirade. "I've been talking to Cindy-" the mention of the object of Lindsay's frustration and affection caused a suddenly exhalation and an over-dramatic jerk of the Inspector's features. Claire hurried on, before Lindsay could begin her tirade. "-And she put me on the phone with Sam's ER doctor."   
  


"She did what?" Lindsay asked, distracted from her offended senses at hearing the absurdity of the action.   
  


"What can I say? The girl's good," Claire quipped, before continuing on. "He said Sam was lucky. The knife went through her lower back, barely missing her organs-"   
  


"That's lucky?" Jill sounded horrified at the idea.   
  


"You have no idea," Claire continued. "Now, in my experience with my murder victims, a slice like that isn't very lucky when you're dealing with a serial killer."   
  


Lindsay processed the information, shifting on her feet. "You're saying he didn't mean to kill her," she said, voice awed with realization.   
  


"I'd have to take a look at the wound myself, but I'm guessing? No."   
  


"That doesn't make sense," Jill interjected. "Kiss-Me-Not's never done that before. Why would he just randomly slice a girl?"   
  


"It's a nudge," Lindsay answered immediately. Already, she was lost in thought, processing the new information. "Wait…" Grabbing hold of Jill's arms, she squeezed meaningfully. "Ashe told me  he said he was afraid Kiss-Me-Not was going to feel forgotten. He was going to 'remind' us."   
  


"So he picked some random girl to stab?"   
  


"No, it wasn't random," Lindsay said. "Ashe had been talking to her, right?"   
  


Staring at Claire, Jill's head tilted in memory. "Yes."   
  


"You're thinking Ashe is still the connection."   
  


"Lindsay!" Tom was once again glaring, this time including them all. "I said get out of here. Do you need me to escort you out?"   
  


"God, I wish we were still married so I could tell him to fuck off," Lindsay bit, and Claire smiled in bittersweet sympathy. She twisted on her heel, making an exaggerated motion toward the door. "If you two hear ANYTHING, I don't care if it's confirmed or not  you call me."   
  


"Of course," Jill rasped, nodding like a scolded child.   
  


"Lindsay!"   
  


"I'M LEAVING, TOM!" The Inspector shot him a hand gesture that Claire would have grounded her children for, and with a parting good-bye glance to her friends, clicked her way to the exit.   
  


"You think we're on to something?" Jill asked, as soon as she was out of earshot.   
  


A door opened, and the handsome form of John Ashe emerged, rubbing lightly at his wrists, now free of Lindsay's handcuffs.   
  


"I think we have to be," she replied honestly. "Too many things are happening for us not to be close."   
  


\--   
  


The little red-head knocked lightly on Sam's door, looking apologetic and nervous and deeply regretful.   
  


"Hi," she began, and Brooke McQueen wondered if she had been here all this time, outside of their door. "I just wanted to check in on her, find out how she's doing."   
  


Fingers still resting lightly on the keys of her laptop, Brooke studied Sam. Her girlfriend hadn't moved much, highly medicated and sedated.   
  


"The same." If Cindy seemed surprised at Brooke's civil tone, she didn't show it. "You can come in. I was hoping to see you."   
  


A flash of a smile of thanks pulled at the other girl's lips, and carefully, she shut the door behind her.   
  


"I called Jane, Sam's mother," Brooke continued, an effort to fill the awkward silence as Cindy Thomas pulled another chair from the empty side of the room. "She wants to fly up here."   
  


Cindy offered a confused frown. "You don't think that's a good idea?"   
  


Brooke glanced again at her laptop, then again at Sam. "I'm not sure if it's a great idea for Jane to see her like this." Cindy's lips were chapped, and Brooke could see why, when the other reporter sucked in her lower lip, gnawing it like it was a nervous tick. "I googled you."   
  


Green eyes flitted to hers, darkening.   
  


"Read your articles, on the Kiss-Me-Not killer," Brooke continued, and turned the laptop in Cindy's direction, allowing her to see the most recent headline she had been perusing. "That's horrible, what happened to those women."   
  


And it was. The things that Brooke read, those were stories reserved for horror novelists, crime serials… Brooke had lived, she had seen a lot of the world, but there was always a part of her that wanted to live in a world of fairy tale fantasies. The realist, that was always Sam.   
  


"Yeah," Cindy said, and it looked like she was struggling not to say more than that. Brooke remembered Sam mentioning she was usually chatty. "We're trying really hard not to make sure it happens again. I'm really sorry," she said again.   
  


"Sam would have gotten involved even if it wasn't you," Brooke answered roughly. "It wasn't your idea to bring that Agent to your door, and Sam can't sit by and see an injustice and not at least try to help." Instinctively, she reached out and smoothed a finger over a bare forearm. "I've always shared her with the world."   
  


"She talks about you constantly," Cindy said, as if sensing her insecurity. "It's really amazing, what you two have."   
  


Brooke studied the bandage stretched over Sam's torso thoughtfully. "We fight hard for it," she commented, mouth twitching at the truthfully. "Our mom  Sam's mom  she once said that when we put our head's together, there's nothing we can't do together." She didn't wait for that to sink in. "I want to see the case file, the one that Sam gave to you."   
  


She was firm. It wasn't a question, but a demand, and it startled the other girl.   
  


"Sam said something about fairy tales," Brooke continued, answering her unspoken question. "I know a lot about them. When we were kids, there were a lot of fantastic things that happened to us, and looking back, the only way I could ever really understand them was to consider them a fantastic fable."   
  


"I'm not sure I understand," Cindy finally broke in, leaning forward. "You want the casefile because you want to help catch this guy?"   
  


"I used to be a journalist." Brooke nodded. "It doesn’t matter what kind. I know how to do the research, and I'm sure I know a lot more about the true origins of these stories than what you guys can come up with. I work for the Travel Channel. We did a series of specials called 'Places of Myth: the real stories of the World's Creepiest Fairytales." The cheesy name caused a wry grin. "It was for Halloween."   
  


Cindy Thomas looked flabbergasted. "Don't you think you should just concentrate on making sure Sam gets better?"   
  


"This will get her better. And I need to do this for her. I need to do everything I can to make sure you guys catch this guy." She shut the laptop, and once again concentrated on Sam, gripping the still fingers and entwining them with hers. "Because now he's pissed me off."   
  


\--   
  


'Wow', Jill thought, as she settled into the plush seat beside Denise's large desk, 'You learn something new every day.'   
  


Denise kept alcohol in her desk, a decent sized bottle hidden in a drawer. From it she also pulled two glasses that were obviously expensively made.   
  


"We were having drinks tonight, weren't we?" Denise asked lightly, when Jill studied the glass of amber liquid offered in her direction. "I guess it doesn't matter where."   
  


It was the first time Jill had ever been ridiculously glad to be in Denise's office. "I guess we're off the clock then," she conceded, reaching for the glass, watching carefully as Denise leaned on her desk, and efficiently, knocked back the shot of alcohol, reaching immediately for another.   
  


Following suit, Jill tilted the drink into her mouth, feeling the requisite burn slide down her esophagus and burn into her stomach, warming her insides and causing a pleasant grimace.   
  


"The call from Quantico came to me," Denise opened, after a moment of contemplative silence. "Morris wanted to know what the hell we were doing, arresting an FBI agent." Almond eyes darkened, glanced at her curiously, as if expecting a rash argument.   
  


Belly lined with alcohol, tired and mind already full of hurt Inspectors and regretful reporters, Jill only crossed her arms and waited.   
  


"You're right," Denise continued, when Jill didn't answer. "There is something fishy about all of this."   
  


Denise surprised Jill. Lately it was happening more frequently. "You remember a few days ago when we had absolutely no leads?" she asked, smiling her thanks when Denise turned the bottle over her empty glass, splashing liquid into it. "Now we've got a fishy FBI Agent, a pissed-off Inspector, a gutted reporter, and we still have no idea who Kiss-Me-Not is."   
  


"Why did you become a lawyer?" Denise asked.   
  


The off-topic question didn't phase her. Taking her time with this glass, Jill studied the amber depths of swishy, strong-smelling liquor and shrugged carelessly. "I figured one way or another, I was going to end up tangled with the law. In a miss-guided attempt at logic, I decided that if I were working for it, I wouldn't end up a complete mess. Also, I had a deep, cheesy, Lifetime-Movie-of-The-Week-ish desire to make good." She flickered her glance to the still Denise. "You?"   
  


"I wanted money," the other woman answered flatly, causing Jill to nearly snort some of her drink. "It's true," she insisted, sly smile playing at the corners of her lips. "It wasn't much of a choice really. Until I graduated law school and decided I wanted to be a patriot. I'm a disappointment to my parents."   
  


"Acting D.A. is a disappointment?"   
  


"I turned down a position with one of the most powerful equity partnerships in the country to come work here, under what turned out to be a crooked D.A.," Denise surmised, chin lowering as she smiled bitterly to herself. "My parents are strong traditionalists."   
  


"Yeah…" Jill allowed a moment of bittersweet jealousy. "I didn't have those."   
  


"Traditions?"   
  


"Parents."   
  


She could feel Denise's gaze burning on her. Jill kept her profile focused on her drink.   
  


"If you or your friends need anything," Denise suddenly began, "If it's legal, and within reason, I'll help anyway I can."   
  


It was surprisingly generous, considering it was Denise. Jill glanced up, and allowed herself to finally look at her, really look, at angles and planes and features on a woman she only ever saw as a nemesis.   
  


As if embarrassed, Denise glanced away.   
  


"Thank you," Jill answered, and said nothing else.   
  


\--   
  


She had dreams; vivid dreams in which she was buried in a dark hole, a grimy and bitter tasting hand plastered against her mouth, muffling her screams. The panic that set her heart hammering against her chest was so extreme she thought she would die from it, the organ literally bursting from tremors.   
  


And there was the pain: it nearly ate her alive.   
  


"Sam…"   
  


Brooke's voice floated over her like an enveloping fog; everywhere at once. She couldn't reach for her, she didn't know where she was.   
  


"Sam, it's okay."   
  


She tried to respond, but the hand against her mouth kept her from speaking, the grip of the hard body behind her jerked her still.   
  


The sharp flare of agony that burned on her side erupted in a strangled scream, and suddenly the hand had flown away, and the darkness of the alley had burst into a dark room with beeps.   
  


The pain was still there, and so was Brooke.   
  


Her tongue felt thick and swollen, and so she tilted her head to find a fuzzy outline of a woman who was cradling her cheeks with warm palms.   
  


"Sam," she said, voice low and soothing. "Sammy, it's okay."   
  


The fuzziness was fading, replaced with the acrid reality of the pain that pulsed. She struggled to breathe.   
  


"I think the morphine is wearing off," she heard Brooke explaining, as her eyes lifted unseeingly. "We'll get you some more-"   
  


"No," she managed, and winced, sounding like a toad. "No, I wannabe-wake."   
  


"Sammy, baby. You're hurt."   
  


Suddenly, it felt extremely important to get out just one thing.   
  


"I'm sorry," she tried, felt the words turn to mush in her mouth. "I'm sorry, Brooke."   
  


The hands at her face stopped, and then fingertips lifted to her stinging eyes, and Sam realized she was crying.   
  


The pressure of the hands lifted, and Sam struggled, eyes closing under the haze of the medication.   
  


The side that wasn't flaring was suddenly blanketed with a familiar warm body. Heart in her throat, Sam jerked her cheek to the side, lost in the feel of silken strands of what she knew would be dirty blonde hair.   
  


"It's okay," she heard, and a kiss pressed against her slurring mouth. "I love you too, Sammy."   
  


\--   
  


"Hi. It's me. Cindy. Again? Wanted to say I'm really… really sorry. Claire said to give you time, but… I'm really sorry, Lindsay."   
  


Cindy was keeping track; she had now left about fifteen messages on Lindsay's voicemail.   
  


"Great news, Cindy," she told herself, face burying into her palms. "You've now crossed the line from border-line pathetic, to really really scary."   
  


Still, she couldn't help herself. She wouldn't stop trying, and it was just one of those things about her: Cindy Thomas didn't know when to quit. And she couldn't quit now  not after what had happened, which actually seemed really really selfish considering what Sam and Brooke were going through but also really really relevant because life was really short and really-   
  


"Okay, you're panicking," she told herself, and shook herself, trying to clear her head of all things Boxer. "Agent Ashe. We're looking at Agent Ashe and trying to connect the dots."   
  


There were dots. They were out there. She just had to find them. There was never such a thing as a coincidence  evidence may have supported the idea that Ashe was legit, but there was nothing legit about his actions with Sam, and his over enthusiastic pursuit of a case that wasn't his to begin with. There was always a reason to madness.   
  


In her case, it was the kiss still burning on her lips, planted on her by one Lindsay Boxer, who was probably going to never speak to her again.   
  


Battling her weakness, Cindy glanced at the phone, just about to reach for it again, when pounding at her door caused it to fly up off her hand over the couch.   
  


"Cindy?" came a gravely, Texas-twanged voice, nearly shouting in its fierceness. "Open the door so I can kick your ass and tell you to stop calling me."   
  


Uh-Oh. Carefully, she edged to the door. "How about you just tell me through the door?"   
  


"Can you not take a fricken hint?" was the explosive response. "You're making me want to turn off my phone, and I CAN'T turn off my phone because I'm a cop, and because I'm a cop, I can arrest you for stalking me-"   
  


"Well, why don't you?" she snapped back, feeling suddenly petulant. "You arrest me for everything else!'   
  


"Open the damned door, and I will!"   
  


"Well, if you would actually pick up the phone when I call, I could actually, you know, apologize and not have to keep calling you because I KNOW you're screening, and sometimes repetition is the only way to get through your thick head!"   
  


The door stopped shaking. "Why didn't you tell me about Ashe?!"   
  


"Because I wasn't sure!"   
  


"Open the door, Cindy!"   
  


"Not if you're going to kill me."   
  


"Open the door, Cindy or God help me, I WILL kill you."   
  


It seemed an extremely viable threat, and cursing her sensibilities for getting involved with a person who could legally own a gun and actually kill her, Cindy unlatched the lock and prepared for the worst.   
  


She opened the door to a wild-eyed, red-faced version of the woman she was head over heels for. Even so, she left her breathless.   
  


Now that the door was open, Lindsay didn't seem to know what to do. Cindy, feeling small and young, didn't offer any suggestions. She simply stared up at the other woman, looking deeply into dark eyes, ready to drown in them, if that was what it took to get through this moment.   
  


"You should have told me," Lindsay said suddenly, quieter, less volatile than she had been.   
  


Cindy licked her lips, and considered just agreeing. "I should have told you earlier," she conceded. "But I had to be sure."   
  


"No." The other woman shook her head fiercely. "When you have information, you don't call Jill, you call me. There is no other option."   
  


Still standing in the doorway, Lindsay Boxer looked her age, tired and scared and acutely angry. She also looked more intensely vulnerable than Cindy had ever seen her.   
  


Cindy just nodded. "I'm sorry."   
  


The dark glower softened, and then those brilliant orbs closed, and Lindsay shook her head, fingers rising to her temple. "You drive me crazy."   
  


Cindy grimaced in solidarity. "Yeah, well… back-atcha."   
  


Eyes opened, looks were exchanged. After a moment, Cindy held out her hand. Lindsay stared at it as if it were alien, but then, her expression turned resigned, and as if she could no longer restrain herself, as if she no longer wanted to, she reached out, and took it.   
  


As she allowed herself to be pulled inside, Lindsay reached for the knob, and closed the door behind her.

\--   



	10. Chapter 10

**TEN.**  
  
A thumb rubbed rhythmically into Lindsay's palm, massaging the pressure point in a distracted, soothing way that Lindsay found completely compelling.   
  


And yet, she hesitated. The world had settled on her shoulders, and her posture had suffered for it, mind ringing with memories: mementos from the eventful night - a flash of Ashe's face, the pale beauty of Cindy's reporter friend, the haunted scream of the girl who loved her.   
  


And beneath, deeper, were the faces of the women with their lips sewn shut, serenely placed, waiting to be found, as if some horrific version of a Prince Charming was attempting to save them from themselves, save Lindsay by giving her a villain to catch.   
  


At what cost?   
  


She had been consumed, had lost everything to an unknown monster who taken her life, and now wanted to decimate it completely.   
  


In the wake of this, she was in a small living room, holding the hand of a girl with red hair and expressive green eyes, who looked at her in a way no one had ever looked at her before.   
  


There existed a curious crossroads here, and in the interest of self preservation, Lindsay knew she should have turned and left, ignored Cindy and ignored this emotion, because they were trapped in hell.   
  


She looked about the room, at the inexpensive couch and the moderately sized television with the DVD's poking out around it in stacks. An aquarium hummed from the other corner, offering an ethereal kind of light that matched well with the LCD brightness of an open laptop, abandoned on a Big Lots type of coffee table.   
  


"I was doing research," she heard, as Cindy saw where she was looking. "Hoping to find something. Anything." Lindsay didn't respond. She felt outside of herself, no real feeling other than an almost painful awareness of skin rubbing intimately on the inside of her hand, keeping them connected. "It feels almost like a black hole," Cindy continued, voice gone low and reverent. "We're just sinking deeper and deeper. And there's nothing to hold onto."   
  


The statement caused Lindsay's attention to once again drift down to their conjoined hands.   
  


"I don't know about that." The rough rasp was enough to force an intense glance from Cindy, and when warmness invaded her, Lindsay discovered she was so starved for that feeling, she couldn't even begin to fight it.   
  


She had been almost rough, the first night she accosted Cindy. There was no choice, no sappy intentions. She had wanted something purely physical, and panicked when she discovered that with Cindy, that was nearly impossible.   
  


Now, her chest tightened and she throbbed, but she was calm and careful, threading fingers through fingers and pulling lightly, until she was inches away from a suddenly enraptured face, searching deeply for the lingering connection she knew was there.   
  


Her head dipped, and she waited for Cindy to make that choice, to give her equal weight in what Lindsay wanted to happen, without words, without promises.   
  


A flush enveloped her body when the firm form of the younger woman leaned into hers, and she met the lips tilting up with a gentle kiss. Lindsay Boxer kept her eyes open, watching the flutter of red lashes against pale skin, acutely aware of thin arms drifting to her sides, warm spots of pressure that tingled as their mouths moved together.   
  


Her heart pounded, loud and intrusive, and like before, she raised her head, breaking the kiss for a brief moment. Cindy's mouth had taken on a wet sheen, and now her cheeks were burning, creating a haunting pink glow that somehow, made her smile.   
  


Another kiss, deeper, wetter, and Lindsay's gentleness gave way to the palming of shoulders, drifting down further over a firm ass, drowning the resulting whimper in Cindy's throat with a demanding tongue.   
  


Her arousal took on a different intensity now, as Cindy's passivity broke and the other woman fumbled between them, jerking erratically at the buttons of Lindsay's shirt, yanking with a desperate ferocity, until she could break off the kiss and bury her face between Lindsay's breasts, fingers spreading wide over taut skin, skimming over her waist and up her back, plucking nimbly at her bra strap.   
  


Panting, Lindsay grabbed hold of fistfuls of auburn hair and watched with breathless intensity as the support around her breasts loosened suddenly, and a thin nose nuzzled underneath the hanging fabric, a tongue laved against the swell of her left breast.   
  


When a warm mouth enveloped her painfully sensitive nipple, a low, fierce growl emanated from the back of Lindsay's throat, and clutching the girl to her bosom, her eyes finally closed.   
  


\--   
  


Agent John Ashe was more than aware that he was obsessive.   
  


He was always intensely aware of his flaws.   
  


Trading off rubbing one sore wrist to rub the other, he sat in his car and glanced through the rear view mirror, at the unmarked car with the dark looking Inspector glaring at him.   
  


Inspector Jacobi, who was a man of few words and rarely issued empty threats.   
  


A trip to the hospital had been on his mind for quite some time, as he sat stonily during Lieutenant Hogan's harsh words, threats and warnings, listened to Jacobi's more valid argument that evidence rarely contradicted gut instinct, and it was only a matter of time before they fell into place together.   
  


At the moment, however, he had a shadow, and with Lindsay Boxer's personal watchdog trailing him, Special Agent John Ashe had no other option but to insert the key in the ignition, and head for the rented apartment that, he was acutely aware, had been ransacked by now.   
  


There was a girl who haunted him. There were a dozen girls, who slipped from his fingers and ended up killing themselves.   
  


John Ashe was a savior, but some people were simply determined not to be saved.   
  


He wondered idly if it were easier to give up. Too many favors had been called in. Too much attention had been thrown in his direction.   
  


He wasn't good with attention.   
  


In the back seat was an object he hadn't noticed, until he unbuckled in his seatbelt and noticed the gleam of shiny metal against the moonlight.   
  


A knife, smeared with blood, greeted him, the ragged edges of the teeth seemed to grin.   
  


\--   
  


It could have been a fierce coupling. Cindy imagined, had it not been for Lindsay's gun, it might have been. The temptation to sink fingers into moist folds had been too hard to ignore, and when it happened, fingers scratching against a tight zipper and her palm rubbing against coarse hair and the tantalizing contrast of smooth, smoldering wetness, Cindy had nearly lost control, wanting to forgo any sort of languid lovemaking for the experience of sliding into this intoxicating woman, and jerking fiercely inside her.   
  


But the gun - and the reminder of what Lindsay was, that part of Lindsay she couldn't ever stop being, slammed into her fingers when she grabbed hold of Lindsay's waist, and it made them both stop, heaving breathlessly against each other, Cindy's forehead falling against the swell of Lindsay's breast as the other woman gripped her nape.   
  


"Let me take it off." The strained request motivated a jerky nod from her, and she sucked in a lungful of air trying hard to contain her dizziness as Lindsay let her go and stepped back, fumbling with the gun and then the badge, a flash of gold glinting at her.   
  


And it was Lindsay Boxer standing in front of her. Beautiful, damaged, incorrigible Lindsay Boxer, who looked flustered and turned on and … insecure… of all things.   
  


If Cindy let it go, Lindsay would remember every valid reason they had for not taking things this far, this fast.   
  


At the moment, Cindy could only think of every reason they should. But not fast. Not now.   
  


Breathing harshly through her nose, chest rising and falling, fighting to keep her senses, she held her hand out and motioned with a quick jerk of her head, pleading with Lindsay to follow through.   
  


Dark eyes burned into her, and then Lindsay's fingers slid over her palm, grabbing hold. Nearly tripping on her self, skitting backwards, Cindy led the way, until the darkness of her bedroom greeted her, and Lindsay pressed into her again, arm sliding over her shoulders, and mouth moving hungrily against hers.   
  


"God, I want you," she heard, in an accented growl against her lips.   
  


Jerking back, Cindy stared intensely into Lindsay's face, all the harsh angles and smooth skin, swollen lips.   
  


She could have spoken - God-knew Cindy loved to speak, but she didn't have to. Not right now. Lindsay knew, she had always known, that Cindy wanted her too.   
  


She more than wanted her.   
  


Grabbing hold of Lindsay's fingers, Cindy deliberately dragged the entwined fingers between them, until Lindsay's palm was pressed against Cindy's breast.   
  


There was a moment of silence, and then the hand squeezed, and Cindy groaned, as the form of the Inspector pressed into her again, knocking her off balance, sitting backwards on her bed, Lindsay crawling up over her, straddling Cindy, no longer hesitant, but purely demanding.   
  


\--   
  


"So… ow."   
  


Sam's exhalation on her current state of affairs inspired a small, loving smile from her partner, who, at the moment, had curled up in an uncomfortable looking hospital chair, clicking away at her laptop, illuminating Brooke's pretty features in a ghostly glow.   
  


"Hon," Brooke murmured quietly, reverent for the late hour, "It's what happens when you get stabbed."   
  


It was the first mention of the incident since Sam had drifted off again, and now, feeling weighted down, thick and dizzy, Sam McPherson still felt the throbbing.   
  


Because she literally had a hole. In her side.   
  


The reality of what happened was only beginning to really dawn on her. Until then, she had been pleasantly hopped up on morphine and shock, and the comforting pressure of Brooke pressed against her, holding her as tightly as she dared.   
  


That act, Brooke told her later, when Sam was jostled awake by Doctor Morris, had earned Brooke quite the angry glare and frosty attitude, where she was informed that visiting hours were over, and Miss McQueen would have to go.   
  


Brooke, of course, had the trump card: she was, quite legally, family.   
  


Sam was actually sorry she had been unconscious during that particular revelation. Over time, she found she really enjoyed freaking people out with the information that they were lovers as well as stepsisters: there was always a half second of glazed stupefaction as they tried to comprehend the relationship.   
  


Imagining the look on the frosty doctor's face created a much needed smile, until she settled more comfortably into her bed (earning herself a wince) and noticed the folder that Brooke was now flipping open.   
  


"Is that the Kiss-Me-Not Casefile?"   
  


Her sharp tone caused Brooke to pause briefly, before her tired girlfriend reached up to deliberately brush a blonde bang away from her forehead, over her ear, and kept reading. "What if it is?"   
  


The harsh headache induced by her medication didn’t help the uneasy thump on her head. "Brooke, why do you have it?"   
  


Colored eyes locked with hers intensely. Brooke betrayed no weakness when she answered simply, "I asked your friend Cindy Thomas for it."   
  


"Okay, but why?"   
  


"Go to sleep, Sam. You need your rest."   
  


The calm easiness of Brooke's dismissal did nothing to alleviate Sam's increasingly grumpy mood. The pain, her entire body throbbed with it, combined with the nauseating pit in her stomach that only increased at the dispassionate way Brooke viewed the photos, resulted in a prickly sort of irritation. "You need to stop treating me like I'm five."   
  


"Why should I? You acting like you were five got you stabbed," came the angry snap. The harsh outburst was stunning, a torrent of anger that had spilled over Brooke's calm façade. "You pulled us into this, Sam. I'm just making sure a knife wound is the worst thing that happens to you."   
  


It wasn't fair really, to pick a fight now. Sam wasn't at her best; far from it, and Brooke had always been quick with the accusations, the come backs, the insults.   
  


It was always worse when Brooke had a point.   
  


Grimacing, Sam struggled to take in a deep breath, hold herself from saying something out of fear that she would later regret.   
  


"Sammy," Brooke said suddenly, softer, gentler. "Please, honey. I'm going to need your help. You need to get better. When you're not full of morphine, you're actually kinda brilliant."   
  


Brooke was teasing her now. She kept quiet, vision growing fuzzy despite her best intentions as the IV dripped medicine into her system, and Brooke worked quietly beside her, a pissed-off guardian angel.   
  


"It's the fairy tales," she slurred suddenly, a blip of a thought floating up into her brain.   
  


"Yeah," came Brooke's soothing voice, a soft whisper above the 'beep-beep' of Sam's equipment. "The ones with morals, more than likely. Female driven."   
  


Her lids were growing progressively heavier, and she struggled, trying to keep her mind working, flowing with Brookes. "Little Red Riding Hood," she rasped. "The old version we learned about - you know… when I was helping you with the research…"   
  


She heard a shuffle of paper, a click of buttons. "Charles Perrault?"   
  


She nodded, eyes now closed. "The one where he eats her. There's no happy ending. Never talk to strangers…"   
  


The smile on her face was a direct response to the sadly ironic state that not following those rules had resulted in her own stabbing.   
  


Something pinged in her brain, but she couldn't hold on. Sleep claimed her, and Sam didn't fight it.   
  


\--   
  


They reeked of sex.   
  


Lindsay could smell it; she could taste it. It lingered in her mouth, the taste of Cindy Thomas, slicked over her chin and lips, a welcome messiness that only happened with the type of intimacy that Lindsay absolutely craved.   
  


Fingers curling over biceps, Lindsay pressed against a shuddering girl and kept her eyes closed as Cindy lazily explored her mouth, sucking and licking against her chin and her cheeks, to once again return to her lips, mingling the taste of her with their shared saliva. The euphoria was addicting, and Lindsay's head tilted, deeply involved in the passionate kiss, allowing Cindy's naked body to recover from Lindsay's ravishing attentions.   
  


Warm lips nipped at her lower lip, then drifted further, suckling at Lindsay's jaw, then lower still. Lindsay arched her neck, allowing her access, eyes fluttering closed at the feel of a wet tongue smoothing just underneath her ear.   
  


"I think you ripped the buttons off my shirt."   
  


The comment was distracting, and Lindsay smiled indulgently, as Cindy paused, then resumed what she was doing. "They were in the way."   
  


The statement was so matter-of-fact, she couldn't help but smile. Fingers glided over bare skin, sweaty with sex, branded so briefly with their activities.   
  


This was why making love was so primal. At this time, at this moment, this girl in her arms, was completely hers.   
  


Fingers reached up, guiding Cindy's chin, until their mouths could once again melt together.   
  


From the corner of her eye, the clock blinked two am. It nagged at her, and Cindy could sense it, kisses slowing to pull back.   
  


"What?" she whispered breathlessly.   
  


Lindsay hesitated, torn between the reality that she would have to leave, and the uncharacteristic desire to stay. Carefully, she managed a smile, before leaning forward once again, to press another languid kiss against Cindy's mouth. Pulling back, she settled against Cindy's pillows, fingering the messy red strands that spilled across Cindy's cheek. "How's your friend?"   
  


A shadow flickered over the younger girl's face, expression darkening. "As well as can be expected, I guess," Cindy muttered, voice husky, adopting a distracted frown. "The ER doctor was actually really helpful." Mouth pressing together, Cindy's brow lowered in contemplation. "Her girlfriend, Brooke, asked for the casefile that Ashe gave to Sam."   
  


Lindsay's fingers stilled. "Did you give it to her?"   
  


Green eyes met hers. "She said she could help." Shifting against the sheets, Cindy propped her head up with one arm, fingers moving in between them to scratch lightly at her collarbone. "Apparently, she did some really extensive research on the true stories behind faerie tales for some Travel Channel special. I figured it couldn't hurt. Besides," she added, when Lindsay's still looked conflicted, "You didn't give her the casefile. It was Ashe."   
  


God-Damned Ashe. Shutting her eyes, Lindsay flopped back on the bed, burying fingers in her damp hair to rub harshly at her scalp, an unconscious attempt to scrub her brain of the recent memories.   
  


"They let him go."   
  


Her new lover blew out a ragged, audible breath beside her. "I know. Claire told me."   
  


Inhaling deeply, Lindsay brought her hands down, tossing her a quick glance. "Tell me you've found something."   
  


Cindy worried her bottom lip. "I'm close. I still have a deadline and now my editor wants me to do an article on Sam and the stabbing - can you believe he wants me to spin it as a hate crime?"   
  


The incredulous look drew a bittersweet smile on Lindsay's face. "Well," she murmured roughly, "Given the lack of evidence, the lack of leads, and the fact that the only eye witness testimony we have is Ashes', that's as good of a theory as any."   
  


In the ensuing silence, she glanced again at the clock.   
  


"You need to go, don't you?"   
  


Feeling caught, Lindsay hesitated, taking in the resigned expression on the gorgeous face. Her eyes drifted, catching bare breasts and mussed hair, and the visual evidence that gave what they had done so much weight.   
  


"I need to look in on Martha," she finally admitted. "And I wanted to stop by the hospital, check on the uni…"   
  


"You're also going to stalk Ashe some more, aren't you?" At the matter-of-fact statement, Lindsay's mouth closed. "Will you just be careful?"   
  


It was an odd thing to say, particularly when Lindsay had been expecting the younger woman to try and talk her out of it. Shifting so that she was closer, she smoothed an open palm over rounded hips, cupping Cindy's ass and curling into her body.   
  


"What?" she asked, a sudden grin brightening her expression. "No, 'Don't do it' or 'Be reasonable'?"   
  


Cindy's knuckles rubbed lightly against the swell of Lindsay's right breast. "Would it make a difference?"   
  


The sensation made her sigh. Keening into Cindy's touch, Lindsay managed a contented shrug. "Probably not."   
  


"I didn't think so."   
  


In the darkest moments of Lindsay's life, she never imagined she would find it so easy to laugh.   
  


Allowing Cindy to kiss her, Lindsay could only attribute it to the most amazing kind of miracle.   
  


\--   
  


Warren Jacobi was getting too old for this shit.   
  


He would never admit it out loud, most certainly not to Lindsay Boxer of all people, but sometimes, he did feel like the old man Lindsay liked to tease that he was.   
  


Despite the body that neglected to keep up, his mind, however was as sharp as ever. He thanked God for that.   
  


One of them needed to always be thinking - there was enough rash impulsive action done by Lindsay to make up for the both of them.   
  


He never imagined this: the amount of affection he had for his partner was unique. She was a woman, but in her own league; above his old wives and new girlfriends.   
  


Lindsay Boxer, quite simply, flummoxed, annoyed and confounded him. She was also his best friend , a stubborn but brilliant cop, who hid behind a dispassionate façade when the naked truth was, she just felt too much; got a little too involved.   
  


But it didn't mean her gut instincts weren't usually right on.   
  


Tom Hogan had ordered Lindsay away from Ashe. He didn't warn Jacobi.   
  


It was now close to 2:30AM in the morning and he sat in his car, restless legs shifting, drinking cold coffee and eyeing the Agent with a menacing glower that was meant to be obvious.   
  


The look on Lindsay Boxer's face at the beginning of what would turn out to be a very long day had been absolutely besotted, and to be frank, it frightened the wits out of Jacobi.   
  


But he understood it. And he was bewildered, but grudgingly happy. Anything to keep Lindsay Boxer out of Tom Hogan's bed.   
  


He suspected the reporter. They had never really discussed orientation (Because Jacobi would never been anything but a woman-lovin' man), but everything Lindsay did regarding the little reporter girl was always just a little too extreme. Too angry. Too possessive. Too much to complain about.   
  


Hell, he probably saw it coming before she did, and goodness knew, she needed it. She almost had it.   
  


Until this motherfucker decided to break code and stalk a reporter, and now they were all stuck ten feet deep in watery shit.   
  


When John Ashe got out of his car, headed his way, Jacobi put down the coffee and picked up his gun.   
  


He waited calmly as the agent approached, and when Ashe tapped lightly on the window, he lowered it, allowing an even stare.   
  


"How can I help you, Agent Ashe?" The barrel of his gun glinted in the dim light provided by a street lamp.   
  


"I need you to see this," Ashe said helpfully, and stepped back, arms up, presumably to prevent any unwanted bullet holes in his cavities.   
  


"Just how stupid do you think I am?"   
  


"On the contrary, I think you're quite brilliant," Ashe responded, "Figured maybe you could tell me why there's a bloody knife planted in my car?"   
  


The statement made no sense, and Jacobi frowned, unsure of the trap.   
  


Deciding, he opened the car door, and kept his hand on his gun. "Let's see it." 

\--   



	11. Chapter 11

**ELEVEN.**  
  
Fingers curled over red-headed locks, and Lindsay Boxer was in the middle of a rather heated embrace when vibrations, mixed with an obnoxious ring, tingled at her from somewhere on Cindy's floor.   
  


At war with herself, instinct forced her to pull back slightly, dark eyes roving over Cindy's resigned smile, the other woman lifting a palm to cradle her cheek gently.   
  


"Gotta get that?"   
  


She actually hesitated, something that surprised her, before Lindsay closed her eyes and leaned her forehead gently against Cindy's cheek. "Yeah," she breathed, long and slow.   
  


A brief bit of pressure against her cheek; a chaste kiss, and then Lindsay moved, untangling from Cindy and sliding feet from the bed to the floor, taking the sheet with her, looking for the little blinking beacon of light that had to be her phone.   
  


She found it, still attached to the beltloop on her jeans, and after a brief moment where she stalled upon realizing Cindy was now moving too, glanced at the Caller ID.   
  


Jacobi.   
  


Flipping open the offending phone, she ignored the obvious sounds of Cindy rustling clothes behind her. "What?"   
  


"It's close to three am. Where the hell are you?"   
  


The accusing tone sent a sudden moment of paranoia through her. Glancing back at the other woman, now tying together a robe at her waist, Lindsay tightened the sheet around her.   
  


"I'm sorry, are you my father?"   
  


Jacobi apparently was in no mood to discuss the nature of their partnership. "We're here at your house."   
  


She stiffened. "What? Who's we?"   
  


"Me and Ashe."   
  


"You and Ashe-"   
  


"There's something we need to show you, so wherever you are, get here. Fast."   
  


The line disconnected, before she could even sputter a reply.   
  


For a second, she stood still, before she rose, dropping the sheet and grabbing her jeans, shaking them out, doing everything she could not to overthink this and wonder why the hell Ashe was with Jacobi and what on earth they could have found that would have had them at her place at three in the morning.   
  


She remembered Cindy, and froze, if only half a second, before glancing back and finding a carefully closed expression, somewhat odd on the usually nakedly honest face.   
  


"I have to go," she said, voice rougher than she intended.   
  


"I know," Cindy said, sitting on the edge of the bed, legs crossed, looking so much more like a woman now than she ever did, with her mussed red hair, and her silky white robe. "I'm doing my very best not to be obnoxiously curious."   
  


The heartfelt admission was enough to melt Lindsay, just a little. She pulled on her shirt, and after a moment of fussing with mismatched holes and a couple missing buttons, she took a precious moment to stride over to the bed and plant a kiss against her lips.   
  


"Next time," she said, when they parted, "We'll plan this better."   
  


A flash of a smile twitched up on full lips, before Cindy carefully pulled the slightly risqué lapels of Lindsay's shirt together. "Next time I'll try not to rip anything."   
  


"Get some sleep. I'll call if I need you. And lock the door behind me."   
  


Cindy nodded, but didn't move, and it made it easier, to straighten and head out of the room, grab hold of her gun and her badge, and leave her behind, for the sake of doing a job that never did seem to end.   
  


\--   
  


"Don't ask," Lindsay warned, the moment she trudged up the driveway to find Jacobi standing on her porch, with a dark scowl on his tired face.   
  


"You were with the reporter, weren't you?"   
  


Lindsay took a look at the FBI Agent waiting just a few feet away, watching her with his squinted, sharp eyes.   
  


"I said don't ask."   
  


"You realize there's a serial killer after you, right?"   
  


"I'm dimly aware of that."   
  


"So it would be nice to know where you are. In case you've been kidnapped." When Jacobi glanced down at her shirt, took note of her missing buttons, she flushed, and zipped up her jacket.   
  


"You found me, I'm fine," she noted dryly. "What's going on?"   
  


"I'm being set up." Ashe stepped forward, and didn't miss the glare that immediately glittered on Lindsay's face.   
  


Neither, apparently, did Jacobi. "It's true," he said, and Lindsay was forced to follow when he nodded toward the Agent, heading in his direction. "I've been following him all night."   
  


Lindsay froze. "You've been following him?"   
  


"Well, just because Tom said you couldn't doesn't mean he said anything like that to me."   
  


The words sunk in, and inappropriate smile glimmered on her face. "I love you."   
  


"Funny way of showing it," he muttered. "Anyway - Ashe was locked up the entire time after you arrested him, right?"   
  


She nodded, eyes shifting between Ashe and Jacobi, initially unsure where this was going. "Of course."   
  


"So when would I have the time to slip the knife that stabbed Samantha McPherson back into my backseat?"   
  


She inhaled sharply, mind suddenly swimming. "What?"   
  


"Take a look," Jacobi offered. "I'm waiting on forensics to go over his car with a fine tooth comb."   
  


Grabbing the flashlight Jacobi handed out, Lindsay shone the beam of light into the backseat of Ashe's car.   
  


"I got in my car; first thing I saw when I looked in the rearview mirror was that incriminating present."   
  


A glittering knife gleamed in a bloodstained puddle.   
  


"Dammit," she breathed, unable to look away.   
  


"He was there," Jacobi confirmed. "Either at the crimescene or at the precinct."   
  


The flashlight snapped off, and she turned, trying hard to keep an even breath. "Did we ever leave the car alone?"   
  


"Could have." Jacobi mused, shoving large hands into his pocket. "You saw the crime scene. It was ridiculous. Everyone was so focused on Ashe the car was dismissed when we were done searching it."   
  


"And we were so busy pinning this on Agent Shady here, we didn't think to search the witnesses. Just question them." The error of their judgment was astounding. Lindsay's eyes shut in sudden frustration. "DAMMIT. He's playing with us. The bastard is so fucking cocky that he's playing with us."   
  


"There's options," Ashe said, breaking into the sudden tense silence. "Witnesses reports, right? The unis. And your reporter friend, Cindy Thomas, she interviewed a ton of them-"   
  


"No." Her tone was low, but powerful. Jacobi's eyes narrowed but she ignored the inferred meaning. "I’m serious."   
  


"Linsday-"   
  


"I mean it, Jacobi." Her shoulders straightened, her eyes glittered. "I'm standing firm on this. Cindy is my source and I will get those notes from her, but you will NOT talk to her. Especially you." The glare that she sent to John Ashe was especially scathing. "You involved one reporter and you almost got her killed. I'm not putting Cindy anywhere near this investigation or you."   
  


The accusation did its work. While Ashe's expression didn't change, there existed an almost angry energy now, as his arms crossed and his stance became defensive. "I had a conversation with a reporter. You appear to be SLEEPING with one. Who marks the bigger X?"   
  


Motherfucker.   
  


"You did more than have a conversation with her. You sought her out. You gave her the casefile, you stalked her at the Gay Pride Parade!"   
  


"I'm trying to catch a serial killer!" he insisted angrily. "And I warned you something like this would happen. And I wasn't the only one at that bar, Miss Boxer. What were you doing there?"   
  


"Supporting a friend," she answered angrily.   
  


"So that's in your job description?"   
  


"Stalking reporters is in yours?"   
  


"Catching the bad guy is. And I'm good at my job."   
  


"Yeah, you were so great at your job you led an innocent girl into a dark alley and got a knife stuck in her gut-"   
  


"Okay, enough." A tired and cranky glower from Jacobi separated them both, as the Inspector stood between them. "I'm too damn old to be playing Playground Supervisor for you two."   
  


"I don't trust him."   
  


"That's obvious," he barked back, face flushed with anger. "And quite frankly, neither do I. But this guy is out there, and he's gunning for both of you now, so it makes sense to work together. "We're not gonna do that, with you two pissing all over each other. Get over yourselves, and let's THINK."   
  


Sucking in a long, frustrated breath, Lindsay turned away from the car, palm pressed angrily against her face.   
  


After another moment, she could finally breath, allow Jacobi's sensible words (and why the hell was he always sensible) flow through her.   
  


"Did you call Tom?" she managed, biting down on her question.   
  


"Of course I called the Lieutenant," Jacobi answered snidely.   
  


"Good," she said, and took a breath. "Then I'll be right back."   
  


"Where are you going?"   
  


"I need to change," she said, with a glare that warned not to ask why. "And I gotta let my dog out. Wait here."   
  


\--   
  


After three hours of sleep, an awkwardly worded text message from Lindsay, and a longer phone call from a crabby sounding Jill alerted Cindy Thomas to the major find that occurred during the time she had been busy … exploring Lindsay Boxer.   
  


The news was completely sobering, and probably not the most romantic way she had ever been woken up after a night of hot sex.   
  


Still, Cindy Thomas was well aware of the romance crushing reality that came with Lindsay Boxer. There was still a serial killer after the woman she was very much in like with (it was too soon for any other L words, and even if she felt she might very well lean that way, to even think of even trying to use that now made her feel like a blushing fourteen year old), and Lindsay was always going to be… Lindsay.   
  


What she got last night, was about romantic as it would ever get.   
  


As it was, it was quite possibly the most romantic night she had ever had.   
  


And then there was a text message, and a phone call, and a by-her-standards choppy article about a stabbing that she knew her editor would hate and immediately chop down further. Sappy sentiment was driven away in favor of resolve, and Cindy Thomas dutifully drank her green tea and thanked God she was young as she showered, dressed, and headed out to the hospital, the first stop of many, on the beginning of a very long day.   
  


\--   
  


It was six am in the morning, and Claire was in the middle of the very stressful job of getting her kids off to school, when her cell phone rang. Naturally, it was Lindsay, and naturally, Claire was asked to do something that was not technically in her job description.   
  


Things like that made her job way more interesting than the average Medical Examiner, and it was just another level of trust in her that made Claire realize just how much she cherished and appreciated Lindsay Boxer.   
  


Coincidentally, it was also a hard reminder of just how scared she was of losing the sometimes self-sabotaging Inspector, who, from the sound of things, hadn't slept a wink all night, and whose gravelly voice dripped with the type of excitement that only came in the twenty-fifth hour, where there were no other reserves but that of pure adrenaline and instinct.   
  


Jill Bernhardt, however, seemed to actually be dragging the dainty feet shod in those professional heels.   
  


"So how much sleep did you get?"   
  


Claire's smile for Jill was more sympathetic than it should have been for eight a.m. in the morning, but only a Medical Examiner would look beyond the meticulously applied make up to see tell-tale bags under the eyes of the pale-skinned lawyer.   
  


The other woman winced in response, reaching into her purse to pull out the designer sunglasses, and slipping them on as she met Claire at the entrance of the hospital. "Not enough. After we were done last night Denise still wanted to bond."   
  


"Ah…" Claire considered the imagery that scenario presented, and remembered a very drunken Acting District Attorney line-dancing at a wedding, just a few weeks back. "Denise and alcohol is never a good scenario."   
  


"Actually…" Jill's stepped slowed, and she turned lightly on her heel, lost in thought. "I'm glad we did it. I've spent so much time resenting Denise, I never really got to know her. To see another side of her was almost inspiring. She's actually not the devil."   
  


Claire clucked in disappointment. "Are you saying we're not going to be able to trash your boss anymore? Because I kinda have fun with that."   
  


"Don't go too far," the other woman quipped. "We've got a long way to go yet. But it is nice to know that Denise doesn't have a big ole knife aimed at my back anymore."   
  


"Bad example," they heard, and Claire turned to discover the red-headed member of their circle coming up behind them, wearing a rather sober expression. "Considering the state of things."   
  


Jill sighed, removing her sunglasses now that they were in the pristine hallways of the medical facility. "Good point." She glanced quickly at Claire. "Did you see the knife?"   
  


"Got a good look at it from a picture Lindsay sent on her way over," Claire nodded. "It's a big boy. Jagged Edge Blade knife. Five dollars online."   
  


"Meaning they sell them anywhere and anyone can buy one," Jill breathed, wincing at the description. "God. Never one break." Her eyes opened. "I'm guessing no prints either?"   
  


"Aside from the positive ID of Ms. McPherson's blood? It's clean." Claire sighed. "But does that surprise you?"   
  


"Of course it doesn't."   
  


"Are we still considering Ashe a suspect?" Cindy interjected, moving between them to start them walking down the corridor. "Or has he been regulated to shady asshole?"   
  


"I think the juries still out on that," Jill answered, but flashed a quick glance at Claire. Cindy had that look on her face, which meant she knew something.   
  


Claire once again found her steps slowing. "Why?" she asked immediately. "What'd you find."   
  


Lips pressed together, Cindy seemed to hesitate, before glancing around her and lowering her voice. "On my way over I called Sam's contact at the FBI."   
  


"You got Sam's contact to talk to you?"   
  


"It wasn't easy," she said immediately. "Brooke gave me the okay to go through Sam's sidekick and I found his number. When he found out that Sam had been stabbed…"   
  


"He wasn't happy."   
  


"Sometimes law enforcement has a weak spot for the plucky Girl Fridays."   
  


The quip caused a smirk from Claire. How true that was.   
  


"So he had information?" Jill asked, a trifle bit impatient.   
  


"Not about Kiss-Me-Not, but man did he spill the beans about Ashe. Did Denise tell you why Ashe was transferred to the Kiss-Me-Not case, and why it was kept so hush-hush?"   
  


Frowning, Jill shook her head. "I don't think she was told."   
  


Proudly, Cindy crossed her arms, looking almost giddy with the information she was parceling out. "John Ashe had a girlfriend."   
  


"That was the big news?" Jill looked annoyed.   
  


Cindy's eyes swiveled to her. "It was Elaine Louis."   
  


The name had a morbidly familiar ring. "Third victim, Elaine Louis?"   
  


Cindy nodded slowly. "Yep."   
  


Claire remembered the details of the woman's death. "She didn't fit the pattern," she breathed, eyes widening in recognition. "She was the one that wasn't from the Bay Area."   
  


"And now Kiss-Me-Not is still trying to frame Ashe." Cindy shrugged. "Maybe our guy isn't just after Lindsay."   
  


Jill's lips pursed, already lost in thought. "If that's true, then why put him on the case? That's unethical."   
  


"Apparently he's made a very good case to his superiors," Cindy continued. "Initially his plea to get put on the case was rejected, but as we all know, that changed."   
  


"Have you told Lindsay yet?"   
  


Cindy flushed oddly, scratching lightly at her nape as she averted her eyes. The action was distracting. "I left her a message on her voicemail."   
  


\--   
  


Lindsay lowered her phone, the message from Cindy that she had news making it hard not to immediately dial.   
  


At the moment, however, she had company.   
  


"I hope you know what you're doing."   
  


John Ashe didn't look at her as he spoke, preferring instead to stare out of the passenger side of her vehicle, watching the traffic as it passed them by.   
  


Lindsay Boxer's fingers preemptively tightened around the steering wheel, forcing herself to keep her attention on the road. "Ashe, not now."   
  


"If not now, then when?" Through the corner of her eye, she could see a glimpse of the handsome profile, now aimed in her direction. "I warned you about getting that girl involved."   
  


That girl. Lindsay's jaw tightened, her teeth grinding in her frustration, suddenly very annoyed with herself for promising Jacobi she would not harm this man. "Ashe, I'm warning you-"   
  


"Do you think you're in any position to love someone? Right now? With this guy after you?"   
  


A black Buick cut them off. Lindsay slammed her booted heel on the brake, and brought her hand down on the horn. "Asshole!" she spit, smacking her palm against the wheel in a sudden loss of self control. "Idiots."   
  


The sudden release of her vented emotion didn't help, and she found herself inhaling deeply, a futile attempt to calm her speeding pulse. "Listen to me," she said, words lower, darker than before. "You stay away from her. You don't touch Cindy Thomas."   
  


"I'm not the one who's endangering her."   
  


"I can take care of her." Even as she said it, the sentence sounded meaningless.   
  


"Because you're so good at taking care of yourself?"   
  


Her vision was blurry, and she sucked in an angry breath. "Ashe-"   
  


"No. You listen to me. You can't protect her. You may think you can, but you can't. Whatever relief you're getting from her right now, no matter what she tells you, it'll be nothing compared to the devastation you're going to feel when you get word that she's got her lips sewn shut and her guts torn out."   
  


In a flash, she was there, in Cindy's bed, in Cindy's arms, embracing the younger girl, feeling broken and somehow put together, by a simple touch and the sweet, sweet press of soft lips against her own.   
  


"Shut up. That's not what's going to happen."   
  


He was quiet, too quiet. When Lindsay got herself under enough control to look, he was back to looking at the traffic, expression closed to her.   
  


"Like I said," he added lightly. "I hope you know what you're doing."   
  


\--   
  


"I'm not sure this is what I meant by 'Get some rest, Ms. McPherson."   
  


Doctor Morris, Sam's handsome ER resident, smiled kindly at her from the entrance of her hospital room.   
  


Sheepish, Sam winced slightly for his benefit, pushing the laptop delicately off her lap.   
  


"I'm neurotically afraid of boredom. I can't help it."   
  


He removed his wire rimmed glasses, and picked up the chart hooked on her desk. "Went off the morphine, I see."   
  


"I requested it," she confirmed, glancing down at the sheets of papers that now littered her standard hospital bed. "This thing hurts like a bitch but at least I don't feel like I'm drowning in nightmares."   
  


He glanced up, grimaced in sympathy. "So this is your anti-drug?" He glanced at the gruesome images of crime scene deaths and murdered woman. "Sounds a little morbid."   
  


Delicately, Sam exhaled, allowing herself a moment of remorse as her eyes followed the way Dr. Morris traced the sewn lips of Melissa Paquin.   
  


"Yeah," she agreed with a conflicted rasp. "But I'm alive, and they're not. It's kinda my mission now to make sure I find out why, and see if I can keep this guy from doing anything else."   
  


His mouth twitched, and he offered her another smile. "Good luck with that. I'll stick with saving lives my own way." He kept skimming the chart. "Where's your sister?"   
  


The technically correct but oh-so-wrong summation of Brooke resulted in a sharp glance from Sam. "Step-sister," she corrected. "Girlfriend. I made her go downstairs and get some food. She's been up all night doing all this."   
  


It was unusual that he didn't expand on that, but Sam attributed it mostly to the fact that it was early, and he seemed more interested in her chart.   
  


"You're a lucky girl, McPherson," he said again, and set the chart back on the edge of the bed. "I'll check up on you in a bit." Once again, his eyes lingered on the bed. "Charles Perrault?" he asked, surprised. "Interesting reading."   
  


With that, he shrugged, and headed out the door.   
  


\--   
  


"Cindy Thomas!"   
  


Brooke McQueen was semi-out of breath, and had nearly scalded herself with bad coffee when she finally caught up to the red-headed reporter, discussing intimately with the two other woman just outside of Sam's door. She turned and immediately recognized her, eyebrows lifting.   
  


"Hey. How's the patient?"   
  


"Awake and off her morphine, and therefore, constantly complaining and annoying." While Brooke remembered the blonde, she didn't recognize the kind-faced older woman staring down at her. "I'm Brooke."   
  


"Claire," the woman said warmly, taking her hand and giving it a gentle shake. "I’m pleased to meet you. Sorry it's under these conditions."   
  


Glancing at the open hospital door, Brooke allowed herself one steadying breath. "Yeah. Me too. I'm glad you're here, though."   
  


"Right," Cindy said, suddenly all business. "You said you had something."   
  


The fact that she seemed so focused was a relief. "I do," Brooke said, shooting her a grateful glance. "I have a ton of somethings. Your fairytales? You weren't off. Those crime scene photos were telling a story. But they're morals. Lessons."   
  


"He's teaching us a lesson?" Jill interjected, colored eyes narrowing at the thought.   
  


"The man you're looking for is basing his fairytales off of Charles Perrault. Do you know him?"   
  


Cindy alone nodded, but she seemed to scavenging her brain for the information. "French storyteller."   
  


"The founder of the Fairytale," Brooke agreed. "Born to an upper class bourgeois family in Paris in 1628."   
  


"Why is that important?"   
  


"Because the guy liked morals," Brooke said heatedly. "That's how Sam and I figured it out." At the mention of her girlfriend, she began to walk, leading the other woman towards Sam's room. "You remember 'Little Red Riding Hood'?"   
  


"Sure," Jill said, hands in her pockets. "The wolf dresses up as the Grandmother, and tries to eat Little Red Riding Hood."   
  


"And then the huntsman comes in and saves the day," Claire finished. "We've all heard it."   
  


A bittersweet expression stretched across Brooke's face, as she shook her head slowly. "Not in Perrault's version. He wanted to teach a lesson. There is no hunter. So what happens to the little girl who is foolish enough to trust a stranger? Little Red Riding Hood gets eaten by the Big Bad Wolf. Some even say it's an analogy for rape."   
  


She paused, letting that sink in, before she moved quickly into Sam's room, offering her lover a tired but energized smile as she nodded to her. "Sam."   
  


"Hey," Sam said, already looking behind her at their sudden guests. "It's suddenly crowded."   
  


"Glad to see you awake," Cindy said. "You remember Jill and Claire."   
  


Brooke didn't wait for the usual pleasantries. "Let's show them."   
  


Sam blinked, but nodded. "Okay." Immediately, she swiveled the laptop she was holding until they could see the monitor. "Based on the crime scenes and what we know about the ladies, here's what we've figured out, according to Perrault's work. Sam McPherson?" she pointed to herself. "Little Red Riding Hood. Obviously." She grimaced, and Brooke laid a gentle arm on her shoulder. "Elaine? Sleeping Beauty. The fun version where she survives only to have her evil stepmother try to eat her and her kids. Melissa Paquin - Blue Beard, as in the evil husband who gives her an old key and in that closet she finds the remains of all his dead wives. Sara Rice? Donkey Skin, the girl who didn't want to get married and was forced to wear the skin of a dead animal for most of her life."   
  


Brooke didn't wait for the curious trio to ask about the obscure fairytales. "There's one more. The most important." Taking a moment, she sucked in a steadying breath, and continued. "Lindsay Boxer is a perfect fit for Griselda."

\--   



	12. Chapter 12

**TWELVE.**  
  
Save for the beep-beep-beeping that had been annoying the crap out of Sam for the past few hours, her room was remarkably silent for being so crowded. This was of course due to the fact that the three women who had been hanging on their every word were now crowded around the laptop, scrolling through it silently.   
  


She was grateful for the respite. Her side was flaring, her head was aching, and in the back of her mind there still existed the urge to take some time, and really process the events of the past few days; finally let it sink in that yes, she had been stabbed, and yes, it was probably by a serial killer, and the pictures and lives she deconstructed really were of women who really did die in horrifying, incomprehensible ways… and this was just all… so… real.   
  


It hurt to breathe, and when she inhaled, trying hard to keep her suddenly rapidly beating pulse down, she winced in reaction, feeling suddenly as if her side had torn open.   
  


Gentle pressure suddenly landed on her shoulder, squeezed, and with that, Sam was brought back. Feeling suddenly exhausted, she managed a nod to the concerned expression standing beside her. "I'm fine," she managed, resisting the urge to push a palm over the bandage that stretched over her lower back and around her side. "I'm just…"   
  


"You're tired," Brooke said, and Sam resisted the urge to retort that she was one to talk. At least Sam had actually gotten some sleep. Her girlfriend, who, on any ordinary day had men and women tripping over themselves to look back at her as she walked down the street, had dirty, stringy hair, and the bags under her eyes were only barely hidden by the glasses she had begun using sometime during the night, when the contacts had begun to sting.   
  


It was Brooke at her most human; exhausted and not caring at all about her appearance because Sam had almost died.   
  


Sam was going to adore her forever.   
  


"I'm okay," she rasped, to prove her point, reached up and squeezed the warm hand sitting on her shoulder, doing her best to mask the pain that would not stop throbbing.   
  


Brooke's gaze was hard, searching, testing her.   
  


The click of fingers against the laptop gave Sam a small reprieve, when Cindy Thomas exhaled loudly through her nose, a faster reader than the rest. "Even in a woman of the highest distinction, he saw only the heart of a hypocrite," she began, her face paler than Sam had ever seen it. "Elated with pride. To him she was a cruel enemy whose unbroken ambition was to gain the mastery over whatever unhappy man might surrender to her." Cindy closed her eyes, crossing her arms, shuddering. "God. This guy defines misogynist."   
  


The quote had been one that Brooke herself had highlighted, from one of the fairytales that Sam had always hated, back when she had researched the French guy in an attempt to stop being bored on late summer night while Brooke was brainstorming ideas with her showrunner.   
  


Brooke, apparently too tired to keep standing, sank heavily into the chair beside Sam's, her uncomfortable version of the bed for the sleepless night she had just spent. "I know, on paper, maybe it doesn't make sense. Griselda… just takes everything. Everything the prince does to her… she just takes it. To prove their love. She's nothing like Lindsay."   
  


"No, Lindsay is nothing at all like his perfect woman," Claire agreed. She was the woman that Sam knew least, but her bearing was almost regal, movements elegant, as she precisely drew her fingers up to her forehead and rubbed. "His perfect women takes this shit and thanks him for it."   
  


Jill shut the laptop, apparently unable to read anymore. "Which is the whole point, right? Lindsay is the anti-Griselda, so she must be punished." The lawyer was shrewd. She too, looked paler than before, expression a mixture of nausea and revulsion, and everything in between - the consequence of finally getting into this guy's head. A glance at Cindy, and then she opened it again, "And everywhere everyone's eyes were on Griselda whose patience under the greatest adversity was praised by all. Indeed, the people even praised the prince's cruelties because they had produced so remarkable a proof of Griselda's constancy that people saw in her a model for women everywhere in the world."   
  


"What a fucking asshole."   
  


The line was spit by Cindy, who had gone from pale to red, face blotched unattractively with splotches of anger. Sam had only dated two women in her life, the one before Brooke was a red-head, her first girlfriend who had a temper to match her fiery tresses. At the moment, the younger Cindy Thomas seemed eerily reminiscent of Rebecca, who had lost her temper with her once or twice, mostly over Brooke related fights, because even when she was with Rebecca, it had always been Brooke.   
  


And Sam got it. She understood, because Cindy Thomas was head over heels over the chick who was meant to learn this lesson, and her fellow reporter was finally starting to make some headway, based on what Brooke had told her about finding Cindy with Lindsay's tongue down her throat.   
  


Sam's head throbbed. Her side throbbed.   
  


"It's what you were looking for, right?" Brooke's tone was gentle, carefully grabbing hold of the laptop before Jill or Cindy could fling it around in their frustration. "The reason he's doing this?"   
  


"The reason he's doing this?" It was Lindsay Boxer, lady-cop who hated her and may have saved her life that interrupted. Any hesitation she might have had entering Sam's room was gone, as her dark hawk eyes landed fast on Sam McPherson. "What's the reason?"   
  


\--   
  


There existed in Cindy Thomas a set of emotions that were so tangled and so extreme she honestly, for the first time in her life, was unable to define what it was she was feeling.   
  


She tried, standing in a sterile hospital room, looking at a pale reporter in obvious pain, and the haunted girlfriend who hadn't slept a wink all night, and her friends beside her that loved Lindsay as much as she did and knew her better. It was the only way to really face what it was she was dealing with - untangle her emotions, categorize them, set them each in their preferred location and mark them with a little sticky, allow her brain to memorize how each felt and find the words to describe them as distinctly and cleanly as possible.   
  


She felt guilt. She felt anger. She felt fear. She felt horror. She felt curiosity. She felt the type of excitement that comes from adrenaline, and she also felt weariness - a weak urge to wish this was just all DONE.   
  


But that one was fleeting. Because this was good. Not the stabbing or the murders, but the fact that maybe, just maybe, they were closer to understanding this guy. She began to breathe, and tried to think logically through the idea that Lindsay had been picked because she was strong and amazing and flawed and divorced and impatient and everything that this guy hated. Whoever he was.   
  


And it wasn't like she needed the push, but now every part of her was invested - because she was Lindsay's lover. She had tasted her, and made love to her, and had seen a vulnerable, frightened Lindsay that she had always suspected existed, and only now had she been trusted to actually witness.   
  


She had been scared before, terrified actually, of the idea of Lindsay being targeted. It had consumed her more than she wanted to admit, but in a sense, she hadn't actually dealt with it. Not when she looked at those pictures. Not with the idea that Lindsay could be anything like those women in those photo. Lindsay was strong. She was a hero. She was untouchable.   
  


In reality, Lindsay was only as strong as the rest of them were. She was a hero, all right, but she was also dark and brooding and prone to relying too much on a gun. And just last night, Cindy herself had touched her, branded her and made her human, and God-DAMMIT, this was real and Cindy was so much in love, and she would die first before she would let someone break Lindsay.   
  


Never before had her ambition seemed so… ambivalent. The story didn't matter more than the person. It was never hard. But this?   
  


And so she categorized her feelings, tried to get them under control, and then of course that all went to hell because Lindsay Boxer walked into the room.   
  


For once, Cindy was struck dumb. Lindsay was a detective, she was hopelessly obsessed, and Cindy took no offense to the one searing glance Lindsay glared in her direction before landing on Brooke. Lindsay had this hanging over her shoulders long enough. She needed answers.   
  


Thankfully, they had them. Not all of them, but more than what they had before.   
  


It was Brooke who explained it, the story of Griselda, the patience shepherdess who met a prince who had gotten lost in the woods, and for whom the prince had fallen in love. The prince who hated all women, thought them deceitful and selfish, and who had sworn never to marry lest a woman destroy him. Brooke, voice monotone and going scratchy from her all night research session, talked about his one order to Griselda when he proposed: she would always obey him, never say no to him, no matter what his will. And of course, Griselda did just that, never questioning, never saying no, not when he stripped the new princess of her jewels and forced her to live like a hermit in her quarters. Not when he forced her to give up her newborn daughter to him to be raised elsewhere. Not when he told her the baby had died. Not when, years later, he brought the baby, now a fifteen year old girl, back to the castle and pronounced her as the new queen, evicting the shepherdess, and then forcing her to be the girl's new guardian. It was only on his supposed wedding, after she had survived and 'passed' all these tests of patience and love, did he finally reveal his plans and reinstate the Shepherdess to her former glory. And both daughter and mother were thankful, pleased, happy that finally she had proved her love to the prince, who was praised for his actions, because Griselda did indeed, prove to be the perfect woman.   
  


Lindsay took that in with an achingly inscrutable frown on her face, one that was only betrayed by the sudden widening of her tell-tale brown eyes, wide and moist, before darkening and blinking away any emotion.   
  


"If that prince lived right now, I'd have his ass thrown in jail for abuse and incest," she snarled as soon as the story was over, and it was enough to break the somber spell, forcing Cindy to blink, methodically uncurl her arms from over her chest.   
  


"It's what you wanted," Brooke replied again, and Cindy, tearing her eyes from Lindsay, nodded shortly.   
  


"It is," she said, trying to sound as unaffected as possible, despite the distracting presence of Lindsay two feet away. "Thank you."   
  


Brooke caught her glance, must have noticed the obvious conflict in her expression, before she only looked away, and once again touched Sam, like she was suddenly reassuring herself.   
  


"I sent you an email," Sam said, rubbing at her face, "With what we found… and… here." She reached out the packet of papers she had been hoarding, waiting for Cindy to take it. "We got Dr. Morris' okay to send some stuff to the nurses station. They printed it up."   
  


Oddly aware of herself, Cindy reached forward to pluck the folder from the other reporter. "Thanks," she said again, as meaningful as she could. "Thank you."   
  


"Just find this bastard."   
  


"And now, I think we should let you rest." True to form, Claire had already plucked the clipboard from Sam's bed, scanning her report with careful, caring eyes. "You're on Advil and I know for a fact that isn't enough when you've gotten your side split open. Mind if I look at that before I go?"   
  


It was her not so subtle clue to clear out, the doctor in Claire cutting through the sudden somber atmosphere.   
  


"I thought you were a Medical Examiner," Sam said, obviously confused as the other woman came forward, gentle and carefully as she began to roll up the side of Sam's t-shirt. "As in dead people."   
  


"You have to know how to cut up a living person if you ever want to get near a dead one," was Claire's quip, before throwing them all a look that clearly said 'get out'.   
  


Finally allowing a small smile, Cindy once again mouthed Brooke McQueen a 'thank you' before following the blonde and the brunette out to the hallway.   
  


"We need evidence," Jill interjected as soon as they had exited the room, voice low. "We need a suspect. We need more than we have."   
  


"You don't think I'm trying to get you that?" Lindsay's voice was strained; angry. Cindy's brow arched in reaction, noting the tight face and it's fierce contradiction to the expression she had seen just a few hours ago. "I'm figuring it out Jill, until then I need you to talk to Denise and her FBI contact and figure out a way to keep Ashe here for a few more days."   
  


The statement was jarring. "What? Why?"   
  


Lindsay shot her only a sideways glance, before turning her attention back to Jill. "He got orders to head back to Quantico. He doesn't want to go."   
  


"And Denise has any pull in that how?"   
  


"You tell me," Lindsay answered rhythmically. "She's the one with the source. He was comfortable enough to call her and bitch to her about us arresting him, she can bitch back about recalling him."   
  


Jill's eyes were sharp and curious. "And why exactly are you so amped on him staying?"   
  


Lindsay looked tired. "Because I don't think he's the guy anymore. And he may be the only person on the planet as obsessed with catching Kiss-Me-Not as I am."   
  


"I think there's a few people in this hallway who may disagree with you," Cindy blurted without thinking. A half second, then Cindy felt a blast of heat invade her when those gorgeous eyes beamed in her direction.   
  


"And you had something to tell me."   
  


"Ashe had a girlfriend and it was Elaine Lewis," she said automatically, averting her eyes, feeling flushed when she felt Jill's scrutinizing stare on her.   
  


When there was no audible reaction to her revelation, she looked up again, to discover Lindsay looking at her with the most odd expression.   
  


"What?"   
  


Lindsay still didn’t answer her. Instead, she just kept looking, looking through Cindy and then suddenly at her, before blinking her eyes and ignoring her completely.   
  


"Given when Brooke and Sam have uncovered and the fact that the guy is after me and Ashe, I think he's close to making a mistake," Lindsay said, dismissing the information completely, as Claire joined them. "I'm going to keep the uniform with Sam, and I want to know who goes in and out." She turned to Claire. "What do you think?"   
  


"Same knife allright," Claire agreed. "And now that the research is done, I suggest we leave them alone. Sam has refused the more powerful painkillers, and that's a hell of a paper cut. Thankfully the ER doctor who admitted her seems to be quite invested in her. The nurse said he's checked in on her three times."   
  


"Dr. Morris?" Cindy queried. "Yeah, he's the one that talked to you over the phone."   
  


"It happens when you're hot and your girlfriend is even hotter," Jill murmured, apparently not over her harmless Brooke lust. "Even after no sleep that girl is gorgeous."   
  


"At any rate, she needs to concentrate on healing. And her pretty girlfriend is one sleepless night away from turning into a zombie." Claire stopped, and considered the faces of the women in front of her. "Did ANY of you sleep last night?   
  


A loud sigh indicated Lindsay wanted the conversation back on track. "You're going to talk to Denise," she said, pointing a finger at Jill. "Right?"   
  


Gaze darting from Cindy to Lindsay, the woman chose not to question Lindsay's sudden focus. "Yes," she said simply.   
  


"Good." Cindy was startled when suddenly Lindsay was staring straight at her. "I need your witness tapes, all of them. Everyone you questioned at the crime scene, I want them all. Get them to me by the end of day."   
  


The callous tone confused her, but Cindy found herself nodding regardless. "Okay. Sam also gave me the list of all the people she interviewed before she was attacked. When do you want to go over-"   
  


"No." Brown eyes flashed harshly at her. "I just want the tapes. And your notes. And Sam's notes. I don't want you. I want you to go back to your job, and write your article, and then I want you to stay the hell away from this investigation. Do you understand?"   
  


No, she didn't understand. She was completely flabbergasted. Aware that she must have looked like a fish, Cindy closed her gaping mouth and then tossed helpless glances to the women on either side of her. "Lindsay-"   
  


"Drop them off with Jacobi at the precinct."   
  


And then Lindsay was moving, walking away from them without so much as a good-bye, which was bitchy Lindsay on a worst day, but now, after last night… almost unthinkable.   
  


"So… apparently Lindsay's still pissed you didn't tell her about Ashe," Jill breathed.   
  


The summation didn't make sense, not at first, until she knocked herself out of her hurt daze and discovered both women looking at her with mutual looks of pity. And then she realized that as far as they knew, the last they had left her, Lindsay was still furious at her for not telling her about Ashe.   
  


They had no idea that Lindsay and Cindy had spent most of the night fucking each other senseless.   
  


God… why did that seem so long ago now?   
  


"I gotta go," she breathed, and headed in the same direction she had seen Lindsay stomp her booted feet.   
  


"Cindy, leave it alone," she heard, Claire offering her sage words of wisdom, but of course, Cindy didn't listen.   
  


She couldn't.   
  


Not when Lindsay was at stake.   
  


\--   
  


The words had become blurry, no matter how hard Brooke tried to make them focus into actual words. Instead, the little black letters blinking at her from the white monitor seemed to almost mock her. Not that it mattered. Even if she did manage to read the word, she hardly had the concentration to make the sentence make sense.   
  


"Claire's right."   
  


Lifting her head from her palms, pausing in the middle of a self-imposed massage to her temples, Brooke discovered her girlfriend eyeing her with that look that was usually reserved for interview subjects. "What? About what?"   
  


"About the fact that you're exhausted." Lips pressing together, Sam held out her palm. After a brief moment, Brook took it, rising weakly to her feet and carefully settling in on the edge of the bed, allowing Sam to intertwine the fingers on their joined hands. It took effort not to sink into Sam's body, allow herself just a minute of rest. The jet leg was taking its toll. "I love that you're here. But you need to get some rest."   
  


Brooke ignored the statement to carefully brush her fingers through the dull strands of Sam's normally shiny hair. There were lines around Sam's eyes, caused by pain, but she had noticed them before, after her long assignment in the Middle East.   
  


Brooke would have never thought Sam capable of withering. Sam had always been so full of life so… determined to live it.   
  


She supposed in some way, that was a consequence.   
  


"I'll get some rest when they catch this guy," she said gruffly, careful as always, as she smoothing strands away from Sam's forehead, exposing a perfect complexion that as a teenager, Brooke had always envied.   
  


"Did I ever tell you that you are a stubborn jackass who doesn't know when to quit?" The flat observation was actually a quote, and despite herself, Brooke had to hide a smile at hearing her own statement to Sam thrown back at her.   
  


"So apparently we have that in common."   
  


The fingers knitted against her squeezed lightly. "Brooke. Seriously. Get some rest. Go back to the hotel. Sleep. We've done all we can."   
  


It was easy to say. It was hard to do. Not when letting Sam out of her sight meant not being able to take responsibility for her well-being. And Brooke knew how to take care of people. She knew how to take care of Mac, and how to take care of her father, before Jane came along. She tried to take care of Sam, and that was the most important, because honestly, Sam was the only person who knew how to take care of her.   
  


Sam could see her weakening, because she turned her head and pressed dry lips to her the corner of her mouth, nuzzling into the side of her face. "Come on, baby. I'll be fine. I'd be better if I knew you weren't turning into the crazy coffee guy from those old Mad TV sketches."   
  


God, she was tired. She glanced at the empty bed, the unoccupied side of Sam's double room, but Sam shook her head, squeezing her fingers again.   
  


"No. To your hotel. Into your bed, and then you'll sleep. No calling my Mom to give her the updates, and if Maria so much as texts with questions about how to host that damned London show, you will throw that phone away." Brooke's phone buzzed in retaliation. "And I swear to god if Mary Cherry calls one more time and tries to get you to do her True Hollywood Story I'm going to get up out of this bed and kick her ass myself."   
  


The last line, said with such exasperation and such a mimic of their time in high school, caused a sudden chortle, and that exhalation of emotion was almost too much for her. Her shoulders bunched, and her body ached, and she found herself almost sobbing, head falling to close her eyes against Sam's ear, gripping her as tightly as she dared.   
  


"You saved my life, Sammy," she whispered.   
  


It was a statement she had told Sam over and over, and it was true. Every day, in every way, Sam kept saving her.   
  


The fingers against hers lifted, and she felt the soft pressure of a kiss against her skin. "I know," Sam said roughly. "You saved mine too."   
  


\--   
  


She had been afraid of this.   
  


The utter focus that encompassed Lindsay during her most extreme cases left a shell of a woman, whose near-sighted focus alienated and confused vulnerable young reporters in love with them.   
  


It was the most tragic kind of conundrum, in which the one thing Lindsay needed to get through this huge pile of steaming shit she was digging through was the one thing she was so damned good at fucking up.   
  


"Cindy's a big girl," Claire said softly, obviously sensing her thoughts. "She can handle it."   
  


Pulling out her cell phone, Jill found she was actually shaken. "You know what?" she decided. "That's not even my problem right now. I love Lindsay and I love Cindy but I don't care if they work it out or not. I just want Lindsay alive. And when that happens and we catch this bastard, then we can lock them in a room together and have them go at it."   
  


"Okay, but... we're taking away Lindsay's gun first, right?" Claire's sense of humor was appreciated, as was her ability to make a quick exit when she saw Jill flipping open her phone. "Be careful," Claire warned, and squeezed her arm in silent good-bye. "You know where to find me."   
  


Nodding in distraction, Jill scrolled quickly through her contacts, and found the number she was looking for.   
  


To him she was a cruel enemy whose unbroken ambition was to gain the mastery over whatever unhappy man might surrender to her   
  


Breathing out raggedly, she tried hard to banish the creepy Griselda story from her mind, eyes on the bored uniformed officer who hooked his hands through his belt loop and leaned against the door, watching idly a cute nurse who snuck glances at him from the nurses station.   
  


Two rings, and a clipped voice cut into her ear. "I've got court this afternoon. You should be here. This better be good."   
  


Jill found it infinitely easier if she considered Denise to be a domesticated cat. Fluffy and capable of purring if you knew where to pet, but she still had claws and a hell of a hiss.   
  


Idly, she thought that was actually a pretty hot analogy. "I'm on my way back," she said, "I had to make a stop at the hospital first to check in on that reporter."   
  


Denise paused. "You friend called it a hate crime in the paper."   
  


"I have a feeling that wasn't entirely her doing." Straightening, Jill grimaced. "Remember when you said you'd do something for us if we needed it?" She walked past the uniform officer and ignored the glare of the doctor who passed by her and her phone.   
  


A pause. "I remember prefacing it with the rule that it had to be within reason."   
  


"How well do you know your FBI contact?"   
  


There was a heavy sigh. "Jill, if I keep calling the guy he's going to think I'm trying to ask him out."   
  


The image drew an unexpected smile. "Well, is he cute?"   
  


"I'm hanging up now."   
  


"Denise, seriously. Apparently Ashe has been recalled to Quantico. Lindsay wants him to stick around."   
  


"I thought the entire reason you had me call him in the first place was to give them grounds to take him off the case."   
  


"What can I say?" she quipped, punching the elevator bunch. "Women are a fickle bunch."   
  


A deep voice laughed low behind her, sending an unexpected chill up her spine and forcing her to nearly drop her phone. "I definitely know something about that."   
  


Insides suddenly tight, Jill licked her lips, apprehensive and, against-her-will, sadly hopeful as she turned and laid eyes on her own personal Dr. Luke, tight-lipped and now standing beside her.   
  


"Jill?" Denise's voice was suddenly tinny. "Hello?"   
  


"Luke," she whispered.   
  


"Luke?!"   
  


Luke's brown eyes burned into her. "You know this is a hospital," he said, strict and formal, crossing his arms as he stared her down. "You need to turn off that phone."   
  


Swallowing hard, Jill found herself unexpectedly numb, never looking away from his achingly beautiful face as she managed into her phone, "Denise, I'm going to have to call you back," before disconnecting.   
  


\--   
  


You listen to me. You can't protect her. You may think you can, but you can't. Whatever relief you're getting from her right now, no matter what she tells you, it'll be nothing compared to the devastation you're going to feel when you get word that she's got her lips sewn shut and her guts torn out.   
  


The words haunted her. The image was too easy to picture, and that gutted her, and even so, she couldn't get free of Cindy Thomas.   
  


She hadn't walked twenty feet before she heard her name being called, the scramble of the reporter trying desperately to catch up.   
  


She followed her. Of course she followed her.   
  


An immense spurt of irritation worked its way up Lindsay's chest and twisted around her heart, because Cindy Thomas was damned infuriating. She could feel her, coming up behind her; she could hear her, with those damn little boots that clacked on hospital linoleum.   
  


"Lindsay."   
  


Jaw clenching, Lindsay held on to the irritation, wanted desperately for it to bubble up into anger, because she had given Cindy specific instructions, and like always, Cindy didn't follow them.   
  


"Lindsay, wait."   
  


A rankle of emotion shivered up her spine, and she was grateful for it, as she drifted to a stop and turned, keeping her face was blank as she could as she watched gorgeous and infuriating Cindy Thomas chase after her like a kicked and pissed off puppy.   
  


"I told you what to do," she bit, letting her eyes flash, hoping to God she could manage this. Because all she could think of was Ashe, drilling those words into her, and Ashe, with his dead girlfriend, and the one achingly real memory of staring down into a beautiful face and feeling absolutely, completely loved. "So why don't you do your job for once instead of stalking me?"   
  


She said it harshly, too harshly. She could see the way Cindy visibly reacted, nearly taking a full step back, obviously not expecting this.   
  


And then Cindy surprised her. Her face hardened and she took two steps forward, draping her bag around her shoulder and rising to her full height, still so much shorter than Lindsay, but looking her straight in the eye.   
  


"I fell for that once," she said flatly. "I'm not going to do it again. Just how stupid do you think I am? Don't answer that," she added, before Lindsay could open her mouth and offer the obvious insult. "You'll only piss me off."   
  


"I thought that was the point."   
  


"No, the point is to drive me away, right?" Cindy's chin came up defiantly. "Scare me so bad so I leave you and I don't end up like Ashe's girlfriend. Because you think the same thing that happened to her will happen to me and you can't stand to have that happen because you actually care about me. You think you're not being completely transparent? Lindsay that's like... every Lassie story ever told."   
  


"So now you're comparing yourself to a dog?" she asked, against her better judgment.   
  


"A dog knows its place." Cindy's brow arched coldly, and Lindsay flushed, remembering the harsh words thrown at this young girl in her first attempt to distance herself. "I on the other hand, would do something really stupid, like handcuffing myself to you and swallowing the key."   
  


That response, for the moment, stunned her into stupidity. "You'd do that?"   
  


"Do you want to find out?"   
  


Cindy Thomas was insane. She couldn't deal with that. Not now.   
  


Shuddering, Lindsay reached forward and grabbed hold of Cindy's elbow, dragging her into a nearby bathroom, shutting the door behind her.   
  


"Listen to me," she began.   
  


She didn't get to finish, because without words, Cindy simply stepped forward, wrapped her arms around her waist, and let her head fall ever so sweetly against Lindsay's chest.   
  


Any protest she might have made died the second she felt the soft form press against her own. Her heart jackknifed in her chest, lodged in her throat, and Lindsay went stiff, looking down at a sweet red-head who now only wanted to offer comfort.   
  


And she wanted it. She wanted it more than she hated the fear.   
  


Her weakness broke in the face of Cindy's strength.   
  


Admitting defeat, Lindsay's palms smoothed over the ruffled top and drew over Cindy's shoulders, bringing her in closer, until they fit together perfectly, just like they had the night before.   
  


In that action, Lindsay finally discovered she could breathe.

\--   



	13. Chapter 13

**THIRTEEN.**  
  
In a women's bathroom in a general hospital, Lindsay Boxer had a terrifying revelation: for all her good intentions, it was utterly impossible to let Cindy Thomas go.   
  


She needed to. She knew that. Ashe's dire warnings had done their work, and she knew, the type of vulnerability this relationship brought out in her had no place. Not here. Not now. Maybe not ever.   
  


And yet.   
  


Unlike the men Lindsay had always dated, who as a whole were always broad shouldered, physically strong, capable of drawing her in and overwhelming her, Cindy was tiny. Cindy was female.   
  


Still, with those slender arms encircling her, and the soft feminine scent that rose from rust colored strands, Lindsay Boxer felt safe and simultaneously terrified.   
  


"You need to leave me," she whispered, a hoarse plea, because she understood now, she didn't have the strength to walk away. Her fingers, picking through red hair to scratch lightly at Cindy's scalp, and her heart, hammering in a tell-tale pulse against Cindy's cheek, proved that.   
  


Wound tightly in her embrace, Cindy issued a heavy sigh, before pulling away slightly, just enough to look at her with dark green eyes that misted with unshed emotion.   
  


"Is that what you want, or what you need?"   
  


The question was impossible to answer, and overwhelmed, Lindsay simply reached up, gently traced the soft, young face, from cheek to lower lip.   
  


Cindy didn't move, too intent on focusing on her face, catching every twitch of muscle.   
  


"You don't want me to get hurt."   
  


Wordlessly, Lindsay nodded.   
  


"You know that's not up to you."   
  


"And you know that being around me increases the risk exponentially."   
  


"Duh. But that's my choice," Cindy cut in softly, fingers tightening on her waist. "I mean, isn't it? That's what makes a relationship so frustrating. You can't tell me what to do."   
  


Cindy Thomas, who had followed her rules to a letter, demanding rules of her own in return, insisting on equality. She had done that once before.   
  


A long stare, and suddenly the door opened, revealing a pair of nurses laughing obscenely at some joke, and then falling into sudden, awkward silence at the intimate picture she and Cindy presented.   
  


Lindsay was to broken too care. When the nurses stared, she simply lifted a brow - enough to cause a flush and a quick glance away, as the flustered women ducked their heads and weaved around them to enter the stalls.   
  


A quiet moment, and then Cindy untangled herself, leaving Lindsay with a chilled, panicked flutter that she chose not to linger on. Swallowing, she kept her face visibly blank, as Cindy once again shouldered her bag, and then said evenly, "I'm better than you at the details. You know that. I remember those faces. If you want my notes, fine, but I’m part of the package. I help, or you arrest me. I need to catch this guy as much as you do."   
  


This was wrong. She knew that. A beautiful, vivacious face, lips pouted in resolute firmness, and God, how she ached for her now. And Cindy was right - with her picture perfect memory, she picked up things, set up the pieces to the puzzle so perfectly for Lindsay to solve.   
  


Her gut wrenched itself inside of her like a knotted muscle, as her head lowered, and she forced herself to push out a long, unsteady breath.   
  


"You can help," she finally managed. "But when we're done… if we find what we're looking for…"   
  


For once, Cindy knew when to quit. "I go back to the Register, with its security guards and shiny lobbies and witnesses, and I wait," she agreed. "For you to call me."   
  


The tightness in her chest eased just a little, and in the corner of her eye, she saw a stall door jerk open, a pair of beady eyes stare at her, and when she finally turned to look, the door slam back closed.   
  


The act brought an unintentional smile to her lips. Cindy's gaze locked with hers, and suddenly her own lips were curling, a loving gaze laced with amusement.   
  


"At least I still make some people weak-kneed," she commented idly, "Since it appears you've lost the fear."   
  


"You still make me weak-kneed," Cindy replied, her smile turning slightly wicked, "Just in a different way."   
  


The connotation, the look, it all made her blush like a damned fourteen year old.   
  


"Go to hell," she muttered hotly, flushing when she saw Cindy's smile broaden at her telling reaction. "Let's go to work."   
  


\--   
  


The name of the uniformed officer who was currently guarding Sam was Officer Weene. He was thirty-five, studying for the second time for the detective's exam, had two kids, and had just mortgaged a new house across the bridge.   
  


Brooke McQueen knew this. She also knew his cell phone number, the number of his boss, and his explicit promise that should anything (anything at all) change regarding Sam's situation, he was to call her on her cell phone immediately.   
  


Despite feeling like the living dead, it wasn't hard to convince him. Brooke had never been a push-over: her best friend in high school had been the biggest bitch on the planet (not to mention had tried to kill her when she had chosen Sam's friendship over hers), and that kind of influence permeated. Officer Weene knew damned well what he would have to face if he let his guard down for even a half second, and Brooke did not make idle threats.   
  


At this moment, she couldn't afford to.   
  


Her promise to Sam was half-kept, and she found herself sinking into a hard plastic chair in the cafeteria instead of into a taxi, gripping yet another cup of sludgy coffee, and forcing herself to gulp it down.   
  


Bone tired, she still couldn't sleep. Not yet. The relief she was hanging on, it wasn't there yet. Everything inside of her seemed… wound up, and Sam, in her earnest bid to try and take care of her, couldn't quite grasp that only by actually seeing her, could Brooke really breathe.   
  


Still, Sam couldn't rest and get better if she was worried about Brooke, and for now, bad coffee in hospital cafeteria a few floors down would have to do.   
  


Her blackberry was currently a litter of work related queries, an occasional text from Mac, who texted on behalf of her mother, asking for updates. While Brooke and Sam both adored their baby sister, and she adored them right back, little Mac had hit her Hannah Montana stage, and with that came all sorts of questions Jane didn't have answers for (trying to explain exactly how Brooke and Sam could be her sisters and still be together was a conversation Jane simply refused to have, and had left that task to Brooke). Mac had inherited not only Brooke's penchant for being stubborn, but Sam's relentless self righteousness, which made for a super smart, super grouchy, super annoying, super cute kid that Brooke loved with everything inside of her. Seeing her name and awkward kid-chat was enough to make a tired smile float onto her face. She needed it. Brooke shot her little a quick text, indicating everything was fine, and then set the infuriating phone aside, crossing her arms and closing her eyes for one desperate moment.   
  


She couldn't sleep. She was exhausted, but her mind was racing so fast…   
  


Resigned, Brooke lifted her head, took another swallow of swill, and reached for her purse, grabbing her phone and depositing it into the bulky designer bag. After a moment, she frowned, and removed her expensive digital camera.   
  


A twitch of a button, and the pictures of the Pride Parade popped up, some professionally set up, with macros and speeds and correct lighting, and some, as the day had gotten progressively crazier and the less technical Sam had taken over, silly and fuzzy, odd angles and cheesy grins.   
  


Transported, her fingers stilled on a candid shot taken by Sam, who had the most annoying habit of stealing Brooke's camera, hauling Brooke in around the shoulders, reaching out with her hand, and snapping an often widely unfocused picture that half the time, cut off half of their heads and emphasized Sam's incredibly sexy grin.   
  


This picture, at first, seemed no different, until a flash of a familiar face slightly obscured in the corner caught her attention.   
  


The loving, devoted smile currently occupying her expression froze, and with her heart suddenly in her throat, Brooke slipped out the memory card, and jammed it quickly into the appropriate space on her laptop.   
  


\--   
  


Agent John Ashe was visibly not pleased to see her as Lindsay led her to her jeep, and Cindy Thomas discovered that, instead of the righteous anger that she had been feeling the entire morning, she instead felt pity.   
  


The creepy Ashe was human now, and while Cindy struggled with that idea, such a paradigm shift from their earlier suspicion, she now understood why he was so utterly invested. He had to be: this was his redemption and his vengeance. The apparition of Cindy Thomas, fingers loosely tangled in Lindsay's, because Lindsay had grabbed hold of her as they exited the parking structure elevator and had yet to let go, was a reminder of everything he had lost.   
  


"We need her," Lindsay said sharply, before the brooding agent could even comment on her presence. "She's going to help go through the notes she has and then she's going home."   
  


Cindy's phone pierced into Lindsay's flat statement, and with an apologetic face, she released her grip, and rummaged through her bag, turning away from Lindsay and Ashe's hushed conversation to discover the intruding caller was Brooke McQueen.   
  


Quickly, she lifted the phone to her ear. "Brooke?"   
  


"Oh, thank God," came the rushed, whispered voice. "Please tell me you haven't left yet."   
  


Immediately, her brow furrowed, snapping her fingers to catch the attention of the agent and the Inspector. "Was just about to. What's wrong?"   
  


"I was looking through the photos Sam and I took of the Pride Parade? I blew them up on my computer, looking for crowd shots. Sam and I were rubbing elbows with people all day. I mean, you were there-"   
  


"Okay," she said, as soothing as she could sound under the circumstances. "Wha'd you find?"   
  


There was a moment of worried hesitation. "It could be nothing, but … Dr. Morris is in a least two of them. He was there, Cindy."   
  


\--   
  


"Do you have… a three?"   
  


Sam McPherson grinned at the disgruntled Office Weene, who grumbled as he pulled out the requested card from his fanned out stack and flung it at her. "I think you're cheating."   
  


"I think I’m awesome," she replied, reaching unsteadily across the bed to collect her prize. "I have a little sister," she explained, when he arched a brow. "She loves this game, and she's sneaky. She went online and started learning how to count cards. She sucks at it, but that's shifty."   
  


"So you are cheating."   
  


"Just intuition," she assured him.   
  


He narrowed his eyes, but settled back on his chairs, studying the cards he had left. "Do you have… a seven?"   
  


She took a moment to prolong the tension, and then with a weak laugh, shook her head, "Go Fish, sucka!"   
  


"God-dammit!" he growled, and she burst out laughing, forcing an unexpected wince as the emotion jerked at her stitches and made her head ring a little. Weene stopped smiling. "Look, maybe I should let you rest…"   
  


"Can't sleep," she said, shrugging, rearranging her cards. "Too much pain. And I can't be bored."   
  


"So maybe you should take your morphine, like a good girl," she heard, and glanced up to once again catch a glimpse of Dr. Morris, leaning into the hospital room, arms crossed. "You really can't be alone for a second, can you?"   
  


"Oh, it's not confinement if it's not solitary," she said with a smile. "But attention can be stifling. I needed Brooke to take a break."   
  


"Well, the big crowd in your room earlier couldn't have been good for you," he agreed, nodding to Weene as the officer rose from the chair he had pulled over, giving him access to the chart. "I'm surprised that the nurses allowed it."   
  


"You don't say no to cops trying to catch a killer," she joked, and then winced when a blaze of pain flared from her side.   
  


At the action, he crossed his arms. "How's it going without the morphine?" he asked flatly.   
  


"Fuck off, I can handle it."   
  


"You don't have to."   
  


"Well, I know, but apparently marijuana is illegal. Wanna write me a prescription?"   
  


Officer Weene immediately deposited the cards back onto Sam's bed and thumbed toward the door. "I'm gonna go stare at the hallway some more, give you two some privacy, and pretend I didn't hear that." He pointed playfully at Sam. "You owe me a rematch."   
  


"Screw that, next time we're playing three-card draw. For cash."   
  


"I didn't hear that either." Weene shut the door behind them.   
  


Morris locked the door, and with an odd face, pulled out a capped syringe from his pocket. The action worried Sam slightly, until he explained in a low tone, "Local anesthetic. Non-drowsy, numbs the area, you don't feel like your side is ready to burst into flames."   
  


Sam eyed it warily. "That's not exactly kosher, is it, doc?"   
  


"It's unorthodox," he agreed, "But it's this or the morphine, Sam." He uncapped the syringe. "You're not fooling anyone with the quips. I know the Advil isn't cutting it."   
  


"Alternatives?"   
  


"Phenazocine, and if I give you that, there are happy hallucinations. I once had a guy who swore that the therapy dog that had come to see him had grown bigger fangs and was going to eat him."   
  


"So basically he started tripping. You sure he wasn't just high? Wouldn't the weed be a cheaper alternative if those are the results we're after?"   
  


Brow arching, he waited.   
  


Sighing, Sam had no choice. "Fine," she breathed. "Lay it on me."   
  


"Lift up your shirt," he said matter-of-factly.   
  


Wincing, she obeyed, leaning forward with a gritted whimper, eyes closing as she felt the strong fingers pull gently at the patch.   
  


"So how are the fairytales?" he asked, in an obvious 'I'm-Just-Trying-To-Distract-You' tone.   
  


"Oh," she said, ragged from the pain. "You know, thrilling stuff. Perrault was an ass."   
  


"Just old-fashioned," he corrected.   
  


"And how the hell do you even know who that guy is anyway?"   
  


He chuckled gently. "Classics, in college. It was a general elective on my way to pre-med, but it stuck. Didn't want to be just a doctor my whole life," he said, his voice low and rumbling behind her. "Believe it or not, I had romantic aspirations."   
  


"You're such a Prince Charming," she said drolly, holding still as he pressed cool palms against her stitches, and accidentally pressed too hard. She inhaled sharply.   
  


"Or a Big Bad Wolf."   
  


The sentence, meant to be light and teasing, felt anything but. Her body stiffened, her heart dropped, and before she could say anything at all, the needle sank into her neck.   
  


\--   
  


Jill had no idea why on earth she harbored some surprise that Luke remained unchanged. Despite the stress of the last few weeks, not much time had passed since Tom's wedding, the night he left her.   
  


His hair was the same, soft and spiky, but his big brown eyes, who before had viewed her with such open adoration were hooded and dark; unreachable.   
  


Inhaling deeply, Jill, a wizard with words in the courtroom, could only deposit her phone back into her purse, and manage an awkward smile. "Hi."   
  


His strong jaw tensed, arms crossed in front of each other defensively, eyeing her as he leaned forward and pushed the elevator button. "Work?"   
  


Suddenly fidgety, Jill reached up and scrubbed lightly at her cropped mane. "Yeah." Breathless, she averted her eyes to the doors. "A reporter was stabbed in an alley at the Gay Pride Parade. We're trying to catch the guy."   
  


"Must be invested," he said after a minute, still not looking at her. "To come all the way down here."   
  


"She's a friend of a friend," Jill answered after a moment. Then, "How've you been, Luke?"   
  


"Oh, because you care?"   
  


It was cheap, and childish, but in this instance, Jill understood his reaction completely. Sliding colored eyes in his direction, she simply answered as honestly as she could, "You know I do."   
  


He looked at her then, finally, and the pain in her chest flared, enough to throw her off balance, forcing her to blink and inhale.   
  


Maybe he saw it, because the arms uncrossed and he seemed almost shamed into admitting, "Doing okay. Better than I expected."   
  


After a moment of internal hemorrhaging, Jill managed a hint of a sincere smile. "I'm glad."   
  


The elevator dinged, and they stepped inside. Jill kept her eyes straight ahead, and took note of the curious numbness that invaded her now, in the absence of the safety that Luke's adoring love had once given her.   
  


"So your friend," he began suddenly, as if he couldn't stand the silence. "Samantha McPherson, right?"   
  


Surprised, she blinked. "Yes. How did…"   
  


He released an embarrassed chuckle, "Rumor has it there is a hot girlfriend."   
  


"Luke!" Chortling despite herself, Jill shook her head, eyes on the descending numbers. "That's so… shallow."   
  


"Did we or, did we not, get off on that hot lesbian porno action?"   
  


She flushed at the memory, glancing at him and grinning. "'Lil bit."   
  


The elevators jerked softly and the doors opened, breaking the suddenly intense moment.   
  


"Coffee?" he asked.   
  


Jill couldn't say no. With a nod, she walked with him down the hall, silent as they ambled toward the cafeteria.   
  


Her phone rang. Flushing, Jill dug back into her purse.   
  


"This is a hospital, Jill." Now, Luke's voice was lighter, but still firm. He had always been serious about his job.   
  


Then again, so had she.   
  


"I'm trying to find a serial killer, Luke," she reminded him, and glanced at the caller ID, registering Lindsay on her screen seconds before she literally bumped into Brooke McQueen. "Oh-hey-"   
  


Her polite smile faded in the face of the unusually pale features. "Has Lindsay called you?"   
  


"What?" When Brooke gripped her arm and her phone kept buzzing, Jill had no choice but to wait, unlocking her phone and answering with a "What?"   
  


"I want a warrant," Lindsay rasped, sounding out-of-breath and static-y. "For Dr. Samuel Morris."   
  


"Dr. Morris?" she repeated, earning a frown from a loitering Luke as well, as Brooke nodded violently and handed her a piece of paper, cheaply printed from a nurses station.   
  


The fuzzy black and white photo featured a smiling Sam and oblivious Brooke, and just off to the side, circled in red, a young man with handsome features, gazing in Sam's direction. "Oh, holy shit-"   
  


"I needed that warrant five minutes ago, Jill-"   
  


"On a photo?" she asked, mind whirling as she struggled to think of the shambles of circumstantial evidence they had accumulated. "Lindsay-"   
  


"Make it enough," Lindsay bit. "I'm on my way back."   
  


The line disconnected, and Jill bit her lip, forced herself to breathe and calm her suddenly whirling senses down, as she scrolled through her contacts and located a judge.   
  


"I need to check on Sam," Brooke breathed. "I left her alone-"   
  


"Luke, go with her," Jill said immediately, already lifting the phone back up to her ear.   
  


Always noble, Luke just nodded, heading back into the elevator with Brooke, and punching in the correct floor.   
  


Heart slamming erratically in her chest, Jill met his eyes with a grateful smile, and when Judge Collins' answered, immediately looked away, ready to do what she could with a scrap of evidence and Lindsay's hunch.   
  


\--   
  


"I lied," she heard, and couldn't speak. Couldn't scream. Couldn't do anything when the doctor crawled in behind her, and held her in a cruelly gentle embrace. "That wasn't a local anesthetic. I mean, it was, but Suxamethonium chloride is a muscle relaxer. I thought you had learned not to trust in strangers."   
  


Oh my fucking God.   
  


Her heart began to pound, and her mouth grew slack, opening in a silent scream, because she couldn't move… she couldn't speak… she could move her neck at all.   
  


Her hand jerked, but he held her tight. "Shh, Little Red Riding Hood," he breathed, dry lips pressing against her temple. "I’m going to make it all better. It won't kill you. It's just to calm you down a bit… so we can give you your morphine, and you can be a good girl and take it."   
  


Large calloused palms smoothed up and down her arms, like he couldn't bring himself not to touch her.   
  


"I gave you a chance, Red," he said, and Sam couldn't close her eyes, even as tears began to run silently down her cheeks. "I did. You were supposed to learn your lesson. I was trying to be compassionate. I was trying to show you… to show them… I could be compassionate. I gave them all chances, and they all disappointed me." He sounded bitter. Angry. "Such a beautiful woman, but your attitude… it makes you ugly. So very ugly. But don't worry. I’m going to make you beautiful again."   
  


A large bicep flexed again as it wrapped around her torso, and he reached with his free hand for her IV.   
  


"Don't mind me," he said mildly. "Just turning this back on. Do you feel it, Red?"   
  


The liquid dropped down the clear plastic tube, and she couldn't see it, but the morphine fused into her system, and then she did, like she was drowning, pulled under against her will.   
  


"Shh," she heard, when her body spasmed, and he once again cradled her, smoothing her bangs away from her face, looking angelic and terrifying as he smiled down at her lovingly. "You'll be out in no time. And when you go to sleep, you'll be reborn. You'll be beautiful."   
  


There was a sudden rattle at the door, the shouting of voices, and Sam could betray no expression as she was freed, only to fall limply back onto the bed, paralyzed, dizzy and nauseous and scared to death of choking on her own bile.   
  


Her eyes drifted wildly, but her neck wouldn't move, felt as weak as a newborn's, and she heard shouts and bullets, ringing in her head; making her spasm yet again.   
  


Her heart jerked in her chest, and then it was too much.   
  


"SAM!" Words from above a buoyant surface, as if Brooke was speaking to her through a field of cotton.   
  


The gurgle forced itself from her throat, a wordless grunt that became the only scream she could manage.   
  


\--   
  


When she skidded into the hospital room, already having pushed past hyperventilating nurses and a trail of blood, Lindsay Boxer, heart in her throat, discovered an officer bleeding on the floor, holding a sheet to his arm, looking wild-eyed and struggling not to panic as a nurse knelt down beside him, and Luke shouting hoarse orders as he leaned over Sam McPherson, her girlfriend clutching her pale hand, tears streaming from her face.   
  


God-dammit.   
  


"WHERE," she yelled, catching Luke's attention, as Cindy pushed past her and immediately grabbed Brooke, giving her something to hold on to so Luke could continue to work on her awake and strangely quiet girlfriend.   
  


The uniformed man clutched the sheet, but sucked in a harsh breath and pointed behind her. "Down the hall," he stuttered weakly. "He's got my gun-"   
  


Unhooking her weapon, Lindsay didn't hesitate as she nodded to Ashe, and turned away from the room and started down the hall, after the trail of blood and in the direction one cowering nurse pointed.   
  


With a fierce kick, weapon up, she led Ashe into the now open stairwell, in pursuit of their killer.

\--   



	14. Chapter 14

**FOURTEEN.**  
  
Every noise in the stairwell seemed amplified, and instead of helping to pinpoint where their killer had gone, it only shot their orientation to hell. The steel steps rang with the force of their steps, sending deafening echoes through the dark spiraled enclosure.  
  


Unlike the hospital corridors, which were so brightly lit they caused Lindsay to squint, the less-traveled staircases flickered with ill-tempered fluorescents, unattended and sore about it.  
  


Breathing hard through her nose, Lindsay landed on the third step, reaching out and grabbing hold of her unintended partner's elbow, keeping Ashe silent as they let the echoing stop and listened.  
  


A few floors down there was a scuttle; a jerk.  
  


It was him.  
  


They flew into motion, nearly skidding down the steps as they raced to catch up with a killer who already had such a lead.  
  


Into her radio, she spat fast, "Every floor, every exit - trap him, and for fuck's sake don't let anyone in or out. The last thing I want to do is shoot at the wrong person."  
  


\--  
  


Jill Bernhardt had retired to an emptier corridor, near the stairwell, in an attempt to get away from the noisiness of the hallway intersection of the emergency room, the adjoining cafeteria and the gift shop.  
  


Frustration and an inability to sway a judge had led her to call in another favor from her less than benevolent boss, who had seemed clipped and out of sorts. Jill didn't have time to coddle her.  
  


The shots that rang out dimly from the floors above, and the resulting panicked shouts that were easily heard over the phone despite the thumping of Jill's suddenly panicked heart, was enough to change Denise's mind.  
  


"Get out of there," the other woman ordered, in a voice that left no room for argument. "I mean it. Get out until we secure that place."  
  


"We still need the warrant-"  
  


"Screw the warrant." A heavy sigh floated into her ear. "I mean it, Jill. I do not want to have to find a replacement for you. We're understaffed as it is."  
  


If that was Denise's odd way of telling Jill she was worried, she was flattered, despite the fact that she had no intention of leaving her friends behind.  
  


"I think I should stay."  
  


"If you're not here in twenty minutes, you're fired."  
  


The line disconnected.  
  


Shaking, Jill shut her phone, blue eyes staring up into the stained tiles of the ceiling above her, as if she could develop x-ray vision and somehow SEE what was going on.  
  


The explosion of the stairwell door jerking outwards caught her on her temple, and the pain was blinding.  
  


Head snapping back, Jill staggered, slamming hard against the opposite wall, resulting in another fierce flash of pain and the taste of copper when she bit her own tongue.  
  


The world was spinning. Vision blurry, head ringing, Jill couldn't control her slump to the floor, even as she squinted and looked upon a dizzying figure that appeared to be Dr. Morris.  
  


Rough hands grabbed hold of her shoulders, and she jerked, suddenly scrambling, when another deafening shot rang out, and there was a scream that wasn't her own.  
  


The cruel grip that bruised her shoulders suddenly let go, and then a darker, kinder face was kneeling before her, fingers pressed against her chin, tilting.  
  


Only after swallowing a gag-inducing bit of blood did Jill realize that the familiar man was speaking to her.  
  


"JILL," Jacobi said again, and shook her for effect, causing something like butterflies to swim around her nauseatingly. "Are you okay?"  
  


Rough fingers tilted her head to the side, inspecting something that, when Jacobi's hands came away, looked a lot like blood.  
  


"Was that Dr. Morris?" she asked, dimly aware of the police officers who seemed to suddenly crowd the small corridor.  
  


Jacobi wore a worrying frown. "Yes," he answered, after a moment of hesitation, and he still seemed far away. She had to strain to hear him over the throbbing of the blood that pulsed on the side of her face. "That was him. I gave him a good shot in his side before he went down that hole again. You're okay, Jill."  
  


She closed her eyes, sucking in another bloody breath and grimacing at the taste. "Hooray," she managed weakly. "I'm getting a warrant."  
  


Jacobi's fingers stilled, and then she was given an odd, sentimental smile from the usually stoic man. "Great," he said, and then called for a medic, sliding his broad palms under her waist and throwing her arm over his shoulder, hoisting her up with a grunt of effort. "You did your job. Now you get that concussion taken care of, and we'll do ours."  
  


Heels slipping weakly on the linoleum floor, Jill was thankful for the support of her best friend's longtime partner. "Thanks," she said, and laid her head against the strong shoulder of the kind man. "You're the best kind of man in the world, Jacobi."  
  


"So I've been told." He gave her another squeeze.  
  


Reaching up, she felt the throbbing bump on her head and then looked at the syrupy dark stuff that coated her fingertips.  
  


"Shit," she breathed. "Denise is going to fire me."  
  


\--  
  


Shots sparked across the metal railings, forcing Lindsay to instinctively jerk, nearly breaking her ribs as she slammed against the staircase, hearing the ricochet before cement brick dusted, burying the bullets.  
  


Two steps below her, Ashe breathed heavily, as steps continued to clatter down the metal staircase; erratic and dodgy.  
  


Static buzzed in her ear. "Lindsay."  
  


Sucking in a lungful of air, Lindsay rose to her haunches, and kept moving. "Jacobi," she answered, letting Ashe move ahead of her, eyes focused on the shadows below them as they moved quickly and carefully.  
  


"He tried to get out on the first floor - ended up running into Jill."  
  


The world teetered, nearly hit her sideways.  
  


Ashe paused, distracted by her suddenly stricken face.  
  


"Jacobi," she managed, choked.  
  


"She's okay," he said quickly, realizing what he had done, just how he had paralyzed her. "She's got a concussion from when the door hit her, but she's fine. I shot him in his shoulder. He backed off and headed back into the stairwell."  
  


Despite the intense danger she had put herself in, Lindsay suddenly wanted nothing more than to sink to the floor in relief.  
  


Her eyes shut for one precious second.  
  


"We're losing time," Ashe said.  
  


"She's okay," she repeated, selfishly needing that assurance.  
  


"She's fine," he said again. "We've got every exit covered on every floor. Nowhere for that boy to go but down."  
  


He almost had Jill.  
  


Lindsay's world nearly lay splintered before her. Above her, a reporter was fighting for her life, below her, her best friend had brushed closer to the killer than she could have ever imagined, and the two incidents nearly overtook her.  
  


They had reached the first floor, the splatter of blood now dark and black against the floor, evidence of Jacobi's work.  
  


It led down into the darkness of the basement. Ashe peered, gun at the ready, squinting in his attempt to remain focused.  
  


"I'm coming in," she heard. The door opened, and suddenly, Jacobi was there, looking concerned and angry, holding up his revolver and nodding to them both. "Let's get this bastard."  
  


\--  
  


It was all wrong. It was just... it was just all wrong.  
  


Dr. Samuel Morris had a plan. He always had a plan, and he followed it.  
  


When he didn't follow the plan, bad things happened.  
  


His confidence was stripped, and without his plan, he found himself making mistakes. Stupid mistakes.  
  


Nearly emptying a clip in the stairwell, all that blood...  
  


Tripping against the last step, Dr. Samuel Morris sucked in a choked, angry breath.  
  


It was all wrong.  
  


He could hear Griselda coming, with her horrifically weak men, leading them and it should have been to her death. To their death.  
  


It had to be. It was the only way she could learn.  
  


But his shoulder stung, paralyzing his entire arm, and Dr. Morris knew that women made him weak. Women had perverted everything and all he had meant was for them to learn a lesson-  
  


She should have been grateful-  
  


She should have learned!  
  


He stumbled, gripping the revolver and resisting the urge to look behind him as he entered the maintenance closet, machines blinking at him in ugly reminder of the world he lived in.  
  


Echoes of footfalls shuddered behind him, and he slumped against the door, taking a moment to suck in a harsh breath, absorb his disappointment.  
  


It wasn't supposed to happen like this.  
  


He had a plan. He had a story...  
  


And Griselda had ruined him. She had ruined him.  
  


He wanted to cry. He wanted to crawl into a fetal position and he wanted to sob like a child - but no.  
  


He wouldn't do that. He wouldn't hear the echoes of his mother, screeching her disappointment in him, bearing down on him with her belt and her bottles.  
  


He was Charming. He was a man. He was in control. He would finish this like a man.  
  


There would be no belts. There would be no bottles.  
  


There would only be silence, and his own happy ending.  
  


Sucking in a hard, wheezing breath, Charming crawled into a corner, just out of view, cocked his gun, and waited.  
  


\--  
  


The lights had been shut off - it left them all blind. The penlight Jacobi had picked off his belt and now pointed down the corridor might as well have been a spotlight to their location, giving Morris time to scurry away, like a roach running away from a brightening kitchen.  
  


She was sweating, the drops of salty condensation dripping down her nose, making her itch.  
  


Still, she kept going, into the darkness with the two men at her side, flanking her like bodyguards, covering as much as they could with their rounded muzzles.  
  


"Patrols have blocked the other side," Jacobi whispered, barely audible. "He's got nowhere to run."  
  


"You told them not to come in."  
  


"This many uniforms, this much paranoia?" Jacobi agreed. "We might as well invite them to a chicken shoot."  
  


She nodded mutely. "And Tom?"  
  


"I'll catch hell about it when he gets here. Until then, let's not worry about it."  
  


"He's been firing wildly," Ashe noted, remarkably still as he lowered his weapon and eased further into the hallway.  
  


She knew exactly what he meant. "He's lost control."  
  


"Which makes him dangerous," Jacobi finished, and grimaced, patting at his jacket. "Man, I wish I had taken the time to grab a vest."  
  


To offer to leave him behind would have been insulting. Lindsay didn't bother.  
  


Moving together, slow and steady, they found a door marked 'MAINTANENCE'. On the handle was a smear of blood, a haunting arrow.  
  


Drops of blood leading them to him... like breadcrumbs.  
  


"Hansel," she breathed, and the thought caused a sudden muted smile, gone as quickly as it had emerged, as Ashe put his hands on the knob and then lifted three fingers, ready to begin the count.  
  


Her hand reached out just before he jerked the knob.  
  


"Wait," she breathed.  
  


"What do you mean, wait?"  
  


Throat sore from the large lump now lodged near her tonsils, Lindsay swallowed painfully, and closed her eyes, praying she was right.  
  


"He's waiting for us. We should wait. For back up. We know he's in there. We need shields-"  
  


Angry brown eyes flashed at her. "No."  
  


"John-"  
  


But Agent John Ashe had broken protocol to get here, he had lost everything to get to this point, and he was beyond reason. One look into haunted dark eyes, and Lindsay knew that.  
  


Beside her, Jacobi was already shaking his head, ready to intervene-  
  


He didn't wait. He jerked the doorknob, and moved in.  
  


She moved, but a strong grip kept her still, Jacobi's eyes narrowed and his hand steady.  
  


The shot came just like she expected.  
  


Ashe slumped, didn't even cry out as he fell to his knees and emptied his gun in the direction of the shot that had ripped into him, blinding flashes that spurted and burned like firecrackers, leaving behind a resounding echo and the smell of burnt metal.  
  


He fell.  
  


Three shots. Two at the stairwell - one with the guard-  
  


The mental tally came to her, and it couldn't have come down to this. To math? Not after all this time.  
  


She heard the dull thud of a metal gun clatter to the ground, and the wheezing that came from blood in lungs, sucking breaths that sounded moist.  
  


A look at Jacobi, and the grip loosened. Together, they moved in, guns up, Jacobi's penlight sweeping to the still breathing Ashe who held a bloody hand to the seeping wound in his side.  
  


Features constricted in pain, he jerked his head to the corner, as Jacobi shined his light and there he was.  
  


Riddled with bullets, Dr. Samuel Morris looked broken, eyes swollen with tears as he twitched against the wall, blinking into Jacobi's light.  
  


Dull, fading eyes looked at her, and he jerked, shaking his head and shuddering.  
  


"Griselda," he managed, his voice so thick and soaked in blood it sounded like gurgles.  
  


Her gun was steady, and the world seemed to slow as she moved to him, until he twitched helplessly for the gun that now lay out of his reach. Her booted foot kicked the useless thing out of the way.  
  


Behind her, Jacobi kept his gun trained on the murderer, already whispering orders into his radio as she knelt down and looked into the eyes of the Kiss-Me-Not killer.  
  


He was young. And handsome. And frightened.  
  


He laughed, spitting up blood as fingers came up and tried to trace her face. She snapped hold of his wrist, fingers wrapping around his hand in a crushing grip, not allowing it.  
  


"You ruined my life," she whispered, only for him. "For so long, I let you destroy it."  
  


He wanted to hear it. The smile on his lips seemed joyful, before his eyes closed and he sucked in another horrible sounded wet breath.  
  


"Don't be stupid, Griselda," he managed, and opened his eyes once more, to look her dead in the eye. "I saved it."  
  


His life expired before her eyes, her hand still clutching his, and the Kiss-Me-Not killer drifted away with a smile on his face.  
  


\--  
  


Sam hated hospitals.  
  


Brooke had known that.  
  


Sam said nothing good ever happened in a hospital. It was an attitude she had adopted early on in life. Her father had died in a hospital. In high school, their best friend Harrison nearly met the same fate thanks to a near fatal brush with cancer. At the same time, Brooke had been hospitalized with anorexia. Then came the coma.  
  


Then Iraq.  
  


Brooke didn't blame her for hating hospitals. The PTSD was beginning to weigh on her too, and in comparison, Brooke's own experiences were beginning to seem mundane.  
  


Exhaustion had faded in a wave of adrenaline, and still, she sat holding one limp palm that she rubbed with obsessive precision; from wrist to fingertip and then back again, swirling circles along the lines on the inside of Sam's hand.  
  


The rhythmic beeps of the machines that monitored Sam were reassuringly stable, images on the machine at her bedside arching up and down in wavy crescents that told her it was okay. For the moment, it was okay.  
  


Beside her, a warm hand pressed into her back, meant to be as reassuring as a near stranger could be.  
  


"They caught him," she heard Cindy Thomas say, in a voice weak with relief. Brooke's mouth tilted upwards slightly, but she didn't look away, as her pulse quickened, then seemed to simultaneously slow. "I just heard. He's dead."  
  


The news went through her, and somehow didn't seem to register.  
  


"You know, you saved her life." Brooke opened her mouth, and inhaled harshly, trying to rid herself of the tightening of her chest. "If you hadn't made the connection with that picture..."  
  


Biting her lower lip, Brooke didn’t look at Cindy Thomas as she raised the limp palm to her mouth and looked at the sleeping form of her recovering girlfriend.  
  


"I suppose it's only fair," she mumbled against soft skin, eyes raking over the still form of a beautiful girl who was more than a girlfriend, more than a partner - her heaven and hell and everything in between. "She's been saving my life since the day we met."  
  


Still gripping Sam's hand, she finally looked back to find a glassy-eyed girl with a trembling mouth and eyes round with unshed feeling.  
  


"Something tells me you know what that's like."  
  


Cindy Thomas didn't answer, but her hand slipped into Brooke's free one, and squeezed. In that intimate gesture, Brooke felt suddenly as if she had a friend.  
  


The thought allowed her to crumble, and as the sobs overtook her, Cindy Thomas drew her in, until Brooke finally allowed herself a weakness, clutching at the smaller girl, shoulders shaking out a torrent of pent-up grief.  
  


\--  
  


"Tell me if this stings," said a low, masculine voice, and Jill hissed in pain as a tiny Band-Aid was stretched over her bruised cut and gently probed into place.  
  


"It stings," she answered matter-of-factly. Digit thumbing gently across her cheek, Luke's smile was heartbreakingly familiar.  
  


"I like to call this an 'I'm Lucky To Be Alive' boo-boo," he told her, after a moment, fingers easing away from her face, turning away to fuss with a tray of medical implements. "You cut it close, Jill."  
  


The look in his eyes was sobering, and wincing at the sore spot on her tongue that rubbed suddenly against her teeth, Jill allowed one moment of stillness.  
  


"I know."  
  


"Jill."  
  


Hearing her name broke the intense look shared between herself and her ex, and when Jill finally noticed Claire, walking quickly in her direction, she found herself suddenly feeling ten emotions at once; overwhelmed.  
  


Luke moved away, and Jill allowed herself one smile for her lost love, hands squeezing together, before Claire came forward and Jill buried herself in the warm, loving embrace of her friend.  
  


Claire gripped her so hard it was almost bruising, and still Jill only gripped her harder, eyes shut tight and heart hammering against her chest, suddenly fearful and vulnerable.  
  


"Oh my God," Claire breathed, and when she pulled back her eyes were moist. Fingers cupping her chin, she inspected her face with a gentle touch. "Are you okay?"  
  


"I'm okay," she said immediately, nodding thickly. "It could have been a lot worse."  
  


Claire didn't seem to believe her, and once again pulled her close in a crushing grip.  
  


Jill allowed it. She needed it.  
  


When Claire seemed once again reassured, and had pulled back enough for Jill to breathe, Jill sucked in a fortifying lungful of air and asked her most important question: "Where's Lindsay?"  
  


"With Ashe," Claire noted quickly. "They're trying to fish out the bullet. He's gonna be okay."  
  


Swallowing hard, Jill nodded. "And Cindy?"  
  


"Being a shoulder to cry on for the reporter's girlfriend," Claire continued. "I checked in on them, but didn't want to disturb. She did text me. Wanted me to make sure you were doing okay, with the ex," she added, voice lowering as her eyes flickered subtly to Luke, standing a few feet away.  
  


It would be just like Cindy to worry about the most insignificant detail, even in the scope of the big picture. Jill now understood that she loved that little reporter.  
  


Inhaling again, Jill wondered desperately why her insides wouldn't settle. "So Sam's okay."  
  


"So far," Claire agreed, tone melodic, soothing. "Luckily, your ex-boyfriend was able to cut off the flow of morphine before she got the full over dose Dr. Morris was intending. She'll be out for a while, but I think the main worry is how the paralyzing serum will affect her. It was pretty traumatizing."  
  


Jill couldn't even imagine.  
  


"Go check on Linz for me, will you?" she asked, squeezing at Claire's elbows. "I'm fine. I just…"  
  


The bond they shared had never been stronger, and Jill knew she would be eternally grateful for that when Claire didn't argue, instead leaned forward and pressed a kiss to her cheek, lingering to whisper in her ear, "Seems like you've got another visitor anyway," before drifting away.  
  


Glancing in the direction Claire motioned to, Jill bit her lip when she saw Denise, posture stiff and almost hostile, standing a few feet away.  
  


Shooting Luke an uneasy glance, Jill grimaced gently as she slid off the hospital bench.  
  


"I hear you got a concussion," Denise said, tone clipped as she came forward, looking completely pissed off.  
  


"As long as I hear I'm not fired I think I'll be fine."  
  


Denise kept her hands to herself, but her sharp eyes roamed over the stitches and tape that inelegantly graced Jill's temple.  
  


"If you had left when I told you this wouldn't have happened."  
  


"If my stubborn head hadn't been in the way he might have gotten away." Staring into the flashing brown eyes, Jill felt a sudden, absurd wave of affection, and an even odder sense of shyness. "Thanks for being worried."  
  


Denise's eyes grew narrower still, and her lips pursed together, not pleased at showing her soft underbelly.  
  


A blush had formed on the angled cheeks and glancing away, Denise looked stiffly at Luke, who still lingered, looking over the chart of the policeman who had been attacked.  
  


"Don't tell me you're getting back together," she clipped, voice even and hard.  
  


Jill blinked, and shook her head slightly. "I think right now we're just focused on the whole thing where we didn't die."  
  


"I know where that leads," Denise allowed, looking tense. "Don't do it. I'm just saying," she insisted. "Rebound sex can be exhilarating but unless you're serious about him - find someone else to sleep with. And don't do it on your desk."  
  


It was utterly amazing how Denise could sound offensive even when she wasn’t trying to be. Jill's found herself smiling despite herself.  
  


"Is this your version of sisterly advice, Denise?"  
  


Her posture only stiffened, and Denise once again looked like she had been caught, though at what, Jill had no idea. "Hardly. You seem to be alive. I want you back in the office in a half hour." She glanced at the prescription note Jill was currently clutching. Lips twitching, she snatched it from her hand. "Better yet, I'll drive you. I'll get this. Wait for me," she ordered, finger pointed in her direction, and Jill knew better than to argue. "Lie down until you're ready to go."  
  


Denise was exceedingly bossy when she was worried. Jill didn't want to wonder why it no longer irritated her.  
  


"Thanks, Den-"  
  


"Don't bother," came the flippant remark, before her boss clacked down the hall in her stilettos, heading toward the pharmacy.  
  


"I think your boss has a crush on you." The voice was kind, teasing, and she had missed that tone from Luke.  
  


Mouth impish, Jill shook her head slowly and kept her eyes closed. "You're crazy."  
  


"I'm not. I saw how she was looking at you. What, you got some sort of pheromone that makes you irresistible?"  
  


Her eyes opened, locked onto pretty brown eyes and a familiar, strained smile.  
  


She willed her heart not to break, and found, with some relief and a little disappointment, that it only throbbed with her loss. She could still breathe.  
  


Mustering as kind of a smile as she could, Jill kept her hands to herself. "Apparently not."  
  


The smile froze, but Luke seemed to understand, as he patted her gently on the shoulder, and then turned away, leaving her once again to close her eyes and just inhale.  
  


She found herself astounded when she realized that for the first time in days, she actually could.  


\--  



	15. Chapter 15

"So we caught the guy." John Ashe remained stoic, flinching only slightly when the nurse stretched the bandage tight around his torso, and slapped it into place. "And you look like we just had brunch."   
  


Lindsay Boxer didn't argue the fact that she looked numb. She worried a nail against her teeth, and exhaled against it.   
  


There should have been… more.   
  


This man, this killer, who had become a pinnacle obsession for her, should have been more. He had consumed her. He had been instrumental in ending her marriage, alienating her friends. The things he had done to those women…   
  


In the end, he was a man, like any other. A criminal with bad aim and an inflated sense of self, who insisted he had saved her life, and then passed away in front of her, riddled with bullets that weren't even from her gun.   
  


Dr. Samuel Morris, aka Kiss-Me-Not, had been taken away in a body bag, and she kept waiting for the validation, the spine tingling RELIEF that she wanted to finally overtake her.   
  


Instead, she felt nothing. It was as if somehow in the course of all this, she had forgotten how to even feel normal.   
  


It was the reason she hadn't gone to see Cindy yet, why she had stayed away from Jill: this … empty feeling that disturbed her far more than any torrent of tears or blindside of emotion.   
  


"It'll sink in," she said after a minute, crossing her arms and straightening her posture as the nurse assisted Ashe in lying back in the hospital bed. The handsome agent kept quiet, regarding her with that singularly focused look that he seemed to trademark, before finally glancing at the uniforms that were standing guard outside of his room. Unlike the patrolmen guarding Sam McPherson, they were not for his own protection.   
  


"I didn't expect to be a hero, when this was finally over," he began, rubbing an open palm against his abdomen. "I knew what I wanted when I came here. It was to finish this."   
  


"At the expense of yourself?" she found herself asking, catching hold of the sleeve of her dull leather jacket, tugging the reassuring leather over her wrist. "You're lying in a bed with a hole in your gut, with uniforms outside waiting for you to get better so Agents can haul your ass back to Quantico."   
  


It was stating the obvious, but it needed to be said, because as much as Lindsay clashed with the always-focused, always-obsessed, always-determined Agent Ashe, there was a plethora of similarities.   
  


Except that she was only divorced. Tom was still very much alive, and married to someone else. And Cindy… and Jill… they were alive too.   
  


Ashe hadn't come out of this nearly that lucky.   
  


"I expected it." Ashe's head fell back against the pillows, and the look on his face: muted, tired, relieved… it was everything Lindsay wanted to feel. Everything she told herself she should be feeling.   
  


"Was it worth it?"   
  


"Worth destroying my life?" He closed his eyes. "Absolutely."   
  


She had once echoed to him similar sentiments.   
  


The statement, lobbied back at her, in the aftermath of what they had endured, individually and together, hit her hard in the chest.   
  


The tears sprang all too easily to her eyes, and hastily, she wiped the water away.   
  


"Lindsay."   
  


Claire, leaning in the door, glancing back at the officers guarding the entrance, hesitated only a moment, before beckoning her with a small smile.   
  


Lindsay sucked in her breath, and nodded, pushing palms into the back pocket of her jeans and offering Ashe another glance. "I know we're not friends," she began, and it was awkward, but true. "But I'm sorry about Elaine."   
  


The name brought him to life. Agent Ashe opened his eyes and gave her an intense look that was both unnerving and heartbreaking.   
  


"You would have liked her," he answered finally. "She was a lot like you."   
  


\--   
  


Claire didn't have a lot of friends. Plenty of acquaintances, sure, and a family she would live and die by, but friends? Those were a precious and treasured few. She could count them on one hand, and while she sometimes felt lonely, she was grateful.   
  


The ones she had, she cared nearly too much about.   
  


When Lindsay emerged from the hospital room, with her tell-tale shiny eyes and conflicted face, Claire didn't wait for permission to ease her arms around her. They were in public, and Lindsay would pull back after a few seconds, but it didn't stop her. Despite the hardcore reputation Lindsay had, with her gun and her leather jacket, her friend was a faucet. Tension built on her shoulders, and leaked from her eyes, and Claire was more than used to it.   
  


Still, Lindsay surprised her. Her friend did feel stiff, but she didn't pull away. Instead, the brunette head fell against her shoulder, and arms slipped tightly around her waist, giving as good as she got.   
  


She smelled like basement and leather and sweat. Only on Lindsay would that ever be … comforting.   
  


"You got him," Claire murmured, as soft as she could as she smoothed a hand over Lindsay's back. "It's finally over."   
  


It was the wrong thing to say. The woman in her arms froze.   
  


Carefully, Claire let go, allowing Lindsay to pull back and stare at her with dark, unreadable eyes.   
  


Uneasiness flushed down her spine, and Claire caught her breath. "It's not over," she surmised.   
  


Lindsay's lips pressed together, and wordlessly, she reached up and scratched at her temple, a nervous tick.   
  


"What's wrong?"   
  


"Claire-"   
  


"Lindsay," she said, firm, because she had to be. Lindsay needed to be ordered, she was too stubborn to listen to just a suggestion. "Tell me what's wrong."   
  


The good Inspector kept quiet, glancing at her and then the officers that stood outside of Ashe's room. "How's Jill?"   
  


Lindsay had another thing coming if she thought she was getting away with mere misdirection. "Jill is fine," she answered easily, tone indicating she wasn't fooled in the slightest. "She's getting stitched up and only had a mild concussion. And before you ask," Claire continued, "So is Cindy. She's sitting with Brooke McQueen."   
  


Lindsay's phone buzzed, offering her a reprieve as she pulled it from its slot at her belt and glanced at the text. A flash of genuine emotion that looked almost like disappointment flashed across her features before it was gone just as quickly. "No," Lindsay remarked. "She's not. She's been forced under the penalty of being fired to head back to the Register and write the story."   
  


"It's the job," Claire acknowledged, low and easy. "Not a lot of time to really process. I'd be with Mr. Morris myself if the Feds hadn't taken over the case."   
  


The name did its work. Lindsay's shoulders slumped, and she glanced at her uncertainly. "We got the bastard."   
  


"Yes," Claire agreed, offering nothing but agreement. "We did."   
  


"So why don't I feel any different?"   
  


There it was. Claire breathed in through her nostrils, choosing her words carefully. "Did you expect some big vindication? Relief and closure because he's finally gone?"   
  


Nervous and afraid, Lindsay hesitated, before offering the slightest nod.   
  


"You do realize that Kiss-Me-Not wasn't your problem, Lindsay," Claire began. "It was more than just a killer who destroyed your relationship with Tom. He was an excuse not to look inside yourself to find out why you were really damaged."   
  


A flash of an empty smile twittered on Lindsay's thin lips. "So now you're a shrink?" she asked hoarsely.   
  


"No, I'm your friend who loves you," she answered quietly, as honestly as she could. "And I know why you're afraid. When Kiss-Me-Not was in the picture, at least you had an excuse to maintain your distance from Tom. From Jill. From anyone that might have honestly loved you. Kiss-Me-Not gave you a reason, Lindsay, to stay away. A tangible, legitimate excuse to keep from disappointing them the way your father disappointed you."   
  


She had been trying to tell Lindsay this for years. The difference, Claire realized, was that this time, maybe Lindsay would finally listen.   
  


The tears were back in Lindsay's eyes, and now, Claire could understand them.   
  


Carefully she placed a hand on Lindsay's elbow, and turning her away from Ashe's door, started them walking.   
  


"Don't get me wrong," she said, curling the arm around Lindsay's waist. "Being emotionally constipated is part of your charm."   
  


The incredulous snort she got was heartening.   
  


"And I know for a fact," she continued, light and cheery. "That Cindy Thomas feels the same way."   
  


Lindsay's steps faltered and bright brown eyes stared at her pleadingly. "So you think an annoying kid in her twenties could out-stubborn a hardened homicide Inspector determined to sabotage herself?"   
  


Claire smiled, because there was actually hope in Lindsay's raspy, Texan twang. Lovingly, she reached up and brushed a dark bang away from the worn, tired, beautiful face. "I think you know the answer to that." Her smile grew wider. "Honey, look at you. You stared into the eyes of a serial killer, and you didn't break a sweat. The real challenge has always been letting yourself be loved - because you have to actually believe it. And for that, you can't use a gun. You can do it," she said, shrugging calmly. "Piece of cake."   
  


Lindsay was so close to believing her.   
  


Claire finally resumed her walk, allowing her friend to lean on her for a few quiet moments, before they faced the world without Lindsay's demon.   
  


\--   
  


Eight hours after Lindsay Boxer, Agent John Ashe and Inspector Jacobi chased down the Kiss-Me-Not killer in the bowels of a hospital, a still-warm copy of the latest Register daily newspaper was plopped on her desk.   
  


The article was about Kiss-Me-Not, of course, and the byline featured dual credit: Cindy Thomas and Sam McPherson.   
  


Cindy didn't consider it generous, but necessary. Sam had nearly died for this story, twice. She had provided the crucial fairytale connection that turned the case and fingered the killer. Cindy didn't have to fight her editor for the credit. He was a journalist, he remembered Theresa Woo.   
  


He understood that it had to be done.   
  


It was a thrilling story, told with as much passion and dedication as Cindy Thomas could muster, with an exclusive with Jill Bernhardt and a quote from Lindsay Boxer (given via text), and vignettes given from various witnesses, who pieced together the odd mystery that was Dr. Samuel Morris, aka the Kiss-Me-Not killer.   
  


Now, it was in print, and being driven out to newsstands, and yet, Cindy Thomas still felt incomplete.   
  


"Hey, Bi-Girl."   
  


The nickname caused her to lift her head, discover Gerard Martinez leaning over her with a look on his face that wasn't teasing at all.   
  


"Hey, Martinez."   
  


A steaming mug of tea was placed on her desk. "Good work."   
  


"Thanks."   
  


He crossed his arms and regarded her. "You look like shit," he opined, and smiled wanly, moving out of her space. "Go home and get some sleep."   
  


"Sleep?" she pretended confusion. "What's that?"   
  


"If you don’t know, you need it." Waving his hand, he kept going.   
  


Feeling absurdly heavy for being such a tiny person, Cindy agreed with the suggestion. Rolling her copy of the edition carefully, Cindy Thomas gathered her things and switched off her monitor.   
  


Halfway to the elevator, her phone rang.   
  


It was bittersweet to discover it was Jill, and despite the disappointment that Lindsay Boxer had yet to really try and connect, Cindy told herself she understood.   
  


The conclusion of this case had been a long time coming, and they had all been overwhelmed.   
  


Lifting the BlackBerry to her ear, Cindy tried to show the smile that was on her face, in her voice. "How's my favorite doorstop?"   
  


"I feel like the living dead," came the miserable voice. "My head is throbbing. I have a swollen bump the size of a testicle on my face-" Cindy's face scrunched with the imagery. "And Denise has decided that our newfound regard for each other gives her a license to hover."   
  


"Oh ouch," Cindy said, as the door opened, and she allowed it to close without her, waving her apologies to the disgruntled employees inside. "Doesn't she know you have a concussion?"   
  


"It's because of the concussion that she's giving me the headache."   
  


The gripe, so familiar and whiney and … utterly comfortable, struck an unintentional chord inside of her. It made her ache with a burst of warmth and loving affection for the other woman, because this is what a true friendship was, and they were lucky to be alive.   
  


"Have I mentioned how much I don't like your boss?" she asked gently, "And how very very glad I am that you're alive to whine about her?"   
  


The abrupt change in direction caused a slight pause in Jill's response, but when she finally did answer, Jill's tone had softened. "Me too." There was a moment of silence, as Cindy once again looked at her headline and considered the hell they had gone through. "You about done over there, Lois Lane?"   
  


"Close to it," Cindy said, and poked the elevator button again, ready to make the second pass. "You?"   
  


"If I don't get away from my hovering, micromanaging, kinda hot and supremely irritating boss, I'm going to implode," Jill agreed. "Feel like a quick meet up at Papa Joe's? I've got Claire in."   
  


Ideally, she should have lectured Jill and instructed her to go home and rest. Selfishly, however, in the wake of what they had all experienced, she needed to see Jill, needed just one more stab of normalcy with her amazing friends and understand that they had made it out okay.   
  


No matter what happened with her and Lindsay, and Sam and Brooke, they were all going to be okay.   
  


"Yeah," she admitted. "I'd really love that."   
  


"See you in ten."   
  


The line disconnected, and exhausted and mushy, Cindy blinked away the emotional tears and waited for the elevator.   
  


\--   
  


The last time Lindsay had met with Cindy Thomas in a secluded part of the San Francisco Register underground parking structure, she knew her only as the quirky, unrelenting, last resort to solve the murder of a fellow reporter.   
  


She remembered feeling overwhelmed and oddly fascinated at the bundle of earnest energy, watching with a skeptical brow as Cindy poured over the books Theresa Woo had left behind, unable to keep from chatting even as she couldn't wait to try and break the coded text.   
  


Something had unnerved her then, flustered her the point of annoyance, because here was a young redheaded reporter (and Lindsay did NOT talk to reporters) who was bragging about picture perfect memory, sounding so damned confident, and had the gall to bring up Kiss-Me-Not at a time Lindsay was trying desperately to forget that failure.   
  


She remembered the tightness in her chest, her loss of patience, the distinct need to bring this over-anxious little reporter down a peg or two.   
  


Months later, Lindsay watched Cindy Thomas walk to the little red car she had the absurdity to name Maggie (and had since named Lindsay's jeep 'Fred'), and felt her chest tighten once again, but in a very different way.   
  


She felt nervous, awkward and simultaneously relieved as she allowed herself a selfish moment of unobstructed gazing, looking at the woman who had become her lover with hungry, loving eyes, before wiping sweaty palms on her jeans and moving forward.   
  


The clop of her boots caused a previously unaware Cindy Thomas to jerk in surprise, startled features taking her in as she nearly dropped the items she juggled in her arm, dripping tea on her hand, and hissing in surprise.   
  


"Lindsay," she breathed, and Lindsay smiled sheepishly, coming forward to help the juggling reporter gain her bearings, pulling the Styrofoam cup out of harm's way. "You scared the crap out of me!"   
  


"Sorry. I didn't mean to sneak up on you."   
  


"Is there any other way to approach someone in an underground parking structure the day after they capture a serial killer?" Cindy replied breathlessly, but she didn't sound annoyed. The flustered grin on her face seemed quite the opposite actually, glad to see her. A charming blush tinged on her cheeks, and Lindsay felt herself reacting shamelessly, heatedly in love.   
  


The nervous numbness that gripped her dissolved in the place of it, and at that, Lindsay felt an almost overwhelming bout of relief.   
  


"You okay?" Her little reporter's shaky grin was now a curious frown, and Lindsay understood why.   
  


Lindsay never did do lovestruck well.   
  


Inhaling deeply, Lindsay tried for honest instead. "When I first went after Kiss-Me-Not… I really became obsessed. I ostracized friends… I destroyed my marriage…"   
  


Cindy's frown deepened, but she kept quiet, dark eyes still inquisitive, but… deeper.   
  


"Back then, I thought it would be okay, if I just caught him. If I stopped him and I had nothing else to live for… that would be all right. And I realized… that's what he did to John Ashe."   
  


Cindy's full lips pulled into a sympathetic line.   
  


Lindsay's eyes stung with unshed tears, but she kept going, arms twitching to cross themselves, an instinctive defense now that she was sharing so nakedly. "I saw him at the hospital today, and that's what he had done. He gave up everything for one shot at taking him down. And I realized… that wasn't me. Standing outside that door, knowing Kiss-Me-Not was inside… I hesitated. I swore I would go in guns blazing, and I didn't. And it wasn't because of Ashe or because Jacobi stopped me, it was because I knew… I had something to live for."   
  


Cindy's chest rose and fell, a tell-tale sign of how much this was affecting her.   
  


"Lindsay…"   
  


Despite the painful lump lodged in her throat, Lindsay forced herself to keep going. "I'm not saying that I'm easy. Or that it won't ever happen to me again. I know now that there are things… insecurities… inside of me that I'm not sure I'll ever be able to fix."   
  


"I don't care." The statement was choked, breathless, as if Cindy couldn't wait to get it out. "I know what you're like, Lindsay."   
  


Unable to help the small, broken smile inching up her face, Lindsay's feelings were bittersweet. "So did Tom."   
  


The name of her ex could have been ill-received, but Cindy needed to hear it. The wounds incurred in the aftermath of the dissolution of her marriage may have scabbed over, but they were there. They always would be.   
  


Quietly, Cindy absorbed that, before a small, gentle smile floated on her face and made her the most beautiful woman in the world. "I know," she whispered, so tenderly it nearly broke her. "But I'm not Tom. I'm a hell of a lot more stubborn, and it might be hard to hear or believe, and it sounds hella narcissistic, but I don't think anyone could love you as much or as well as I do."   
  


The sentence, this declaration of love, was said with such passion, it was almost impossible to believe it came from such a tiny, young person.   
  


Faced with it, Lindsay was overwhelmed.   
  


Her heart throbbed, and her breath caught, and Lindsay found herself forced to look away, unable to take the intensity or the sincerity in Cindy's eyes.   
  


"You're right," she joked weakly, chuckling. "That sounds extremely narcissistic."   
  


"Deal with it," came the flat response. "I'm good at what I do, and I'm good at being with you. And you know it. You've always known it."   
  


It was that confidence and wisdom from Cindy, who was still so young and had so much to learn, that had always flabbergasted her.   
  


She laughed again, an uneasy reaction, but there was joy, sneaking in between the fear and the insecurity, a ridiculous burst of hope that threatened to overwhelm her. This was just so unexpected, that she could have this - THIS - with Cindy Thomas, and it felt warm and it felt real and it felt… good.   
  


More than good.   
  


A little reporter with red hair, freckles, perfect memory recall, and an unstoppable mouth.   
  


"Remind me," she croaked hoarsely, and just like that, Cindy's things fell to the floor, and the younger woman slipped into her arms, and opened her mouth against hers.   
  


Digging fingers roughly into long, red tresses, Lindsay kissed her greedily, devouring Cindy Thomas with a hunger that seemed insatiable. The thrill that coursed through her the moment Cindy's tongue slid against hers was jolting, and as they kissed, again and again, Lindsay Boxer thanked GOD for drunken moments of inhibition, and sneaky little reporters who broke into apartments, and didn't know how to hear no.   
  


"You sneak," she whispered against moist lips, before smiling into the kiss she pressed against Cindy's mouth.   
  


Parting a breathless moment later, Cindy just grinned. "You bet your ass," she said, and slid her arms over Lindsay's shoulders, bringing her down further, into another explosive embrace.   
  


\--   
  


The doctor who saved Sam's life brought Brooke a newspaper, fresh from the hospital's delivery.   
  


She gave it to Sam, sinking down on the white sheets, to watch as her tired, beautiful girlfriend thumbed through the printed edition, traced the black etch of the story that had overtaken her so completely.   
  


"It's amazing, isn't it?" Sam asked, in her hoarse rasp, a parting gift from Kiss-Me-Not thanks to aftereffects of his injection.   
  


"What do you mean?" Brooke asked softly, brushing a blonde strand away from her face to smile thinly at the other woman.   
  


Shrugging gently, Sam's eyes were shiny with unshed emotion as she flipped open the paper and showed her the article, with the shared byline and the large picture of Dr. Samuel Morris. "All the hell, everything that we did - I mean I came to San Francisco thinking I'd be bored."   
  


Brooke smiled thinly. "That had been my hope, yeah."   
  


"You can't escape it, can you?" Sam's eyes flickered down to the article once again, looking riveted. "And now… it's just words. Every emotion, every living, breathing iota of experience has been digested into a simple newspaper article."   
  


Sam's moments of introspection were rare, and it was to Brooke's credit that she had learned to recognize them. Carefully, she grabbed hold of an open palm, felt Sam's grip close around her immediately, squeezing in thankfulness.   
  


"And?" Brooke asked, leading the other girl on. "Was it worth it?"   
  


Dark brown eyes were wide and beautiful, studying her from a pale face, plump lips that she had kissed a thousand times, and would kiss a thousand times more.   
  


This was her lover - a reporter, a fighter, a gem with a knack for trouble and an instinctive yearn for righteousness.   
  


"I don't know," Sam answered honestly, and a hot tear spilled down her cheeks. Sam brushed it aside thoughtlessly, almost unaware of the depth of her emotion. "I guess that's kind of the point, right? It doesn't matter if it’s worth it - sometimes a story just needs to be told."   
  


The hands clasped together shifted, until fingers tangled together intimately.   
  


"Cindy's editor offered me a job," Sam said suddenly, eyes lingering on the smooth palm of her long-time partner. "Features."   
  


"Not freelance."   
  


"Well, I kinda fucked up that Pride Parade puff piece," she joked, in that distant tone she sometimes used when she was nervous. "I have a feeling freelance jobs are gonna be few and far between if I keep getting stabbed with knives and needles."   
  


Pulling Sam's palm toward her, Brooke drew it into her lap, and massage it lightly with both hands. "I'm kinda hoping that turns into just a one-time thing."   
  


"Brooke." Sam's expression was serious. "What would happen if I said yes?"   
  


Eyes on their joined digits, Brooke took her time considering the answer. This was a city that had nearly gotten Sam killed. It was a city that had taken them in and swallowed them whole, given them an unforgettable introduction with its seedier aspects enveloping them.   
  


Throughout it, they had stood. Not strong, weak actually, but they were still here, and the consequence was there, in print, in a story.   
  


The story meant everything.   
  


"They wouldn't have stopped this guy without us," she began, heart thumping patiently against her chest. "We've spent our lives saving each other, right?"   
  


Wordlessly, eyes moist with feeling, Sam nodded.   
  


A small, timid smile formed on Brooke's face. "It feels good to step away from ourselves and save someone else's life for once." Sam's eyes moved, darted across her face, unsure at first what that meant. "Jane is going to KILL you when you tell her we're moving to San Francisco."   
  


A moment of stunned silence, and then she saw an unsure, hopeful expression emerge from that beautiful face. "You're serious."   
  


"I can do my job from anywhere," Brooke admitted, smiling softly. "And you and Cindy Thomas have become quite the dynamic duo."   
  


There was a poignant moment of silence, before Sam gasped, overly dramatic. "Wait, are you saying that there is a redhead you actually approve of?"   
  


"Well, if you two ever actually made out, I’d have a different opinion," Brooke replied drolly. "As it is, I just love you, Sam. I want you to be happy. And I'm so… so grateful that you're still with me. Because I just don't know who I am without you."   
  


The tears in her eyes made Sam shine, and Brooke leaned forward, no longer able to keep from pressing a kiss against Sam's lips. "You save the world," she murmured against plump lips, a breathless moment later, "And I'll just worry about saving you."   
  


\--   
  


Based purely on cosmetic outward appearance, the scene at Papa Joe's seemed unchanged. There was still the four of them, seated in their favorite booth. The requisite orders of fries and fruit salad lay on platters between them, and though it was early, they each had their drink of choice, save for Jill, whose medication forbade it.   
  


Still, there lingered a unique kind of energy today that Claire found she did not mind. Beside her, Jill looked haggard, but there was a smile on her face that went past her lips and into her eyes.   
  


The same could be said for one Lindsay Boxer, who seemed shy and quietly happy, palm propping up the side of her cheek as she listened and watched with guarded adoration as Cindy Thomas expounded on the latest gossip at the end of one of their longest days.   
  


Cindy herself was not left untouched. There existed inside of her a unique sense of maturity that hadn't been obvious before. It bled from her with every smile she threw in Lindsay's direction, every motion of her hands that made her story come alive, in the relief that seemed to resonate through all of them that, at this moment, they were free.   
  


There was no real reason for this 'club' meeting, Claire knew that. They all did. They were all bone tired. They all needed sleep, Jill especially.   
  


But more than that, there was a simple need to be together, an unspoken understanding that in the eye of the storm they perpetually faced, they still had each other.   
  


Such a realization meant the world to Claire.   
  


"He seriously offered her a job," Jill said, brow furrowed in perplexed befuddlement. "And she took it?"   
  


Cindy smiled and shrugged. "Guess San Francisco made an impression."   
  


"She's a masochist," Jill said, picking at a fry. "That's the only explanation."   
  


"Or maybe she's hooked on making a difference," Cindy retorted, and Lindsay managed a grimace.   
  


"One reporter is enough. We're not letting her into the club," Lindsay said flippantly, and earned a disgusted look from Jill in response.   
  


"What, one minute with her and you're already calling it a club?" Jill flung a fry in her direction. "Lesbian." The wilted piece of potato landed in her hair.   
  


Cindy guffawed, Lindsay glared, and carefully plucked the fry from her brunette locks. Claire hid her smile behind her palm, and blinked her tears back.   
  


For the first time since Lindsay had revealed that she was the latest target for her Kiss-Me-Not nemesis, Claire truly believed that they were all going to be okay.   
  


When a soaring bit of cantaloupe splashed into her Cosmo, Claire amended her thought. Lindsay and Jill were going to be okay. Cindy was going to die. With a snort, she grabbed hold of a grape and heedless of Cindy's sputtered apologies, let it fly.   


\--   



	16. Chapter 16

**EPILOGUE.**  
  
"Did you know I entered law school under the mistaken assumption that being able to logically form arguments and present them would somehow or other deter me from making the bad decisions I'm so very good at making?"   
  


Lindsay Boxer stared dizzily at her, lit roach in one hand. Leaning back against the bench, she turned her head and carefully blew out a thin stream of smoke.   
  


"I didn't even know you were capable of forming a complex sentence when you're stoned."   
  


Jill's smile was gentle, and carefully, she leaned forward and plucked the joint out of Lindsay's fingers to inhale.   
  


"Please," she said, after the euphoric feeling passed through her with the tinted smoke. "I'm a lawyer. I'm a damned good lawyer."   
  


"You're a great lawyer," Lindsay agreed, eyes closed as she leaned back and allowed the moonlight shafting down onto the porch to shine on her face like a sunbeam. "The city of San Francisco is DAMNED lucky to have you."   
  


"Damned straight." Squinting, she offered the weed back to Lindsay. Her friend merely waved it away.   
  


"Cindy'll be home soon," she explained, eyes closing again. "For being one of those hippie green tea college converts? Surprisingly strict about illegal narcotics."   
  


"I find that hard to believe," Jill snorted, but obediently stubbed out the joint. "You KNOW she must have lit up in a dorm somewhere."   
  


"Well, you know Cindy. Her and Lois Lane 2.0 are the paradigms of righteousness - the new Woodward and Bernstein. They're out right now investigating some sort of Norma Rae type immigrant scandal."   
  


Jill didn't hide her smirk. Even underneath the weed induced mellow emotion, she could tell Lindsay Boxer was absurdly proud of her girl. "How does it feel to be shacking up with one half of San Francisco's super reporting team?"   
  


"Exhausting," Lindsay admitted, but there was a smile on her attractive face. "You know, at first I thought Cindy was like a wind up toy, capable of slowing down."   
  


"Not so much?"   
  


"Still excited about… EVERYTHING," Lindsay burst, brown eyes bursting open in their expressiveness. "I've considered once or twice slipping Nyquil in her tea just to get a breather."   
  


"Aww." Jill jostled her shoulder playfully. "You love it."   
  


"I'm old," Lindsay drawled, not swayed by the obvious truth. "I'm her Daddy Long Legs. She's my Leslie Caron."   
  


"That movie always creeped me out."   
  


"Me too," Lindsay confirmed. "But now I figured out why it works."   
  


"Tell me," Jill asked, enjoying this. "Why does it work?"   
  


Smiling blissfully, Lindsay offered her a stoned thumbs up. "Because the sex? Is really really good."   
  


Jill nearly choked on her own laughter, sniggering alongside her friend as she grabbed hold of the blanket and drew it over herself. "Truer words were never spoken." Snuggling into Lindsay's side, Jill laid her cheek against a bony shoulder and considered the tailspins her life had frequently taken. "I'm glad it worked out for you, Linz."   
  


A strong arm wrapped around her shoulder, bringing her in closer in a loving embrace. "So you gonna tell me what brought out the roach?"   
  


"I need a special occasion?" she asked lightly.   
  


"Bitch, I may be shacked up but I'm still your best friend. Don’t tell me I don't know you."   
  


Blowing out her breath uneasily, Jill felt her buzz fade slightly and stared at the sleeping Martha nestled at Lindsay's feet. "I made out with my boss." At the admission, the blush crept up the sides of her neck, and onto her cheeks.   
  


"You what?!" Jill flushed harder.   
  


"I didn't start it," she said heatedly, snuggling in further in the blanket, protecting herself from Lindsay's laser vision.   
  


"You made out. With your boss. Who is Denise. Ergo you made out with Denise?!"   
  


Jill groaned, hands falling into her lap, even hotter now that she was reliving the entire afternoon experience. "I didn't mean to!" she snapped, maintaining her innocence. "You know we've been getting closer lately, and she's been acting weird, and I had this meeting with Hanson, and she got so BITCHY afterwards that I called her on it, and then … we were making out."   
  


"But DENISE?!"   
  


"I know!"   
  


"She's your boss!"   
  


"I KNOW!"   
  


"She's… DENISE!"   
  


Groaning, Jill's head fell forward, burying her face in her palms, no longer wanting to see Lindsay's incredulous face.   
  


"Believe me," she snapped, losing her patience. "I know."   
  


Another minute of silence, and then she couldn't take it anymore. She peeked.   
  


Lindsay, blanket flung off of her, spine stiff, looked flabbergasted. She gaped, mouth opening and closing, before she glanced at Jill and seemed to make a sort of squeak, before she stopped herself, swallowed, and asked curiously, "Was it hot?"   
  


Miserably, she nodded.   
  


"Did she totally panic?"   
  


"Stuck her tongue down my throat, felt me up, freaked out, broke away, told me if we talked about this ever, she was going to fire me, sped out of my office like her ass was on fire."   
  


Lindsay blinked. "Wow."   
  


Heart thumping wildly, Jill swallowed. "I was so ridiculously turned on I couldn't think straight." She shook her head morosely. "I had to literally lock myself in a stall and…," she flushed. "Finish myself off."   
  


Lindsay blinked again, eyes wide and round, and suddenly, she smiled.   
  


"What?" Jill asked, immediately suspicious.   
  


"She gave you blue balls."   
  


The summation of what happened, and Lindsay's apparent cheeriness about it, did not resonate at first, until Jill remembered a similar conversation on this exact same porch, many months ago.   
  


"Oh, don't even-"   
  


"DENISE KWON IS A TEASE!" Lindsay hollered, collapsing into a fit of laughter, finding this much more funny thanks to the weed Jill had given her, sniggering and looking like a total idiot.   
  


"God-damn you, Lindsay," she retorted, because this was a horrible, horrible situation, and now Lindsay was making her laugh, and dear God, she needed it.   
  


Wheezing, Lindsay wrapped her arms around her and squeezed, "You are SO screwed."   
  


"I know!" she breathed, shoulders shaking. "I'm so gonna screw my boss-"   
  


"-On a desk!"   
  


"-On the floor!"   
  


"-On a towel by the door-"   
  


"-In the tub, in the car-"   
  


"-Up against the minibar!"   
  


By this time they were clinging to each other out of sheer necessity, because the laughter had made them weak, and the tears that were streaming from their eyes were a welcome relief, because Jill was screwed, but at the very least, they could laugh about it.   
  


That was how Cindy Thomas found them, collapsed together on the wooden bench, looking stoned and silly and crying with laugh-induced tears.   
  


Lindsay's little lover wrinkled her nose, beckoned to Martha, and rolled her eyes. "I don't want to know, do I?"   
  


"Oh you do," Lindsay said, and squished Jill harder. "Jill has blue balls!"   
  


"No," Jill corrected indignantly. "I masturbated."   
  


Brow arching, Cindy studied them both. "I'll get the beer," she decided. "And don't think I don't know that you two have been going crazy with the Reefer Madness. The porch reeks."   
  


"I love you," Lindsay said merrily, and Cindy blew her a kiss as she and Martha slipped back into their house.   
  


Eyes still shiny, Jill snuggled up against her friend and glanced after the departed reporter. "See?" she said softly. "I was right. She is good for you."   
  


Lindsay Boxer sighed, and considered the statement. "Yeah," she acknowledged quietly. "I think so too."   
  


**-FIN-  
**


End file.
